


Autobiography

by tartausucre



Category: Firewall
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Stockholm Syndrome, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:04:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 45,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartausucre/pseuds/tartausucre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill has been in the ransom business a long time. Margaux Butler - an up-and-coming talent with wealthy connections - is the perfect target. Set well before the events of Firewall. (Tag-Surfers: This fic can be read as original fiction and still make sense)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> There will be strong themes of abuse, and all that the situation of kidnap entails, in future chapters. 
> 
> While the story has erotic themes, it is not intended to romanticise kidnapping, but to explore the phenomenon of Stockholm Syndrome from the victim's point of view.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy the story. Constructive criticism is always welcome - let me know what works and what doesn't!
> 
> Thanks :)

Margaux watched the twin beams of the taxi move off down the drive, turning the cold steel of the door key in her fingers. The driver had been a bit... strange. She wanted to make sure he had gone before she unlocked her front door.

Finally, the headlights were out of sight, and she turned and fumbled for the lock.

The house smelled of damp -- more so today than usual. Another English summer. She wrinkled her nose and stepped into the tiny square of Victorian tile that made up the entrance hall. She hung her keys over the stair banister and reached for the light, toeing off her shoes.

The cat stalked out of the darkness of the dining room and wound itself around her legs, and she shooed it out of the way absently. It shot her a look of disdain and crossed the hall into the drawing room - Margaux heard a soft feline grunt as it jumped up onto the sofa. She reached through the doorway, turned on the light, and froze.

"Hello, Margaux."

Sitting casually on the sofa was a man. A long-limbed, blond, softly smiling man. He took a sip out of her favourite mug — shaped like the TARDIS — scratched the cat's head, and patted the seat beside him.

"Come and sit down."

It took Margaux a few seconds to find her voice. In the meantime she stood motionless in the soft light of the hall lamp, eyeing the stranger warily.

"...What are you doing in my house?"

"Now, Margaux, that's no way to greet a visitor. Aren't you going to tell me to make myself at home? Offer me some tea?"

"It looks as though you have that covered."

"That's true. But then you kept me waiting. Behind schedule tonight?”

"I don't understand."

A fresh smile played across his features. Far from a comforting expression, his cold gaze held her paralysed while her mind screamed out at her legs to run.

He stood and closed the gap between them, extending a long-fingered, gloved hand. He stood a foot taller than her, maybe a little more. “I’m Bill."

"So I don't know you." Margaux looked down at his extended hand as though it were something venomous, and took a step backward.

"No, you don't." He lowered his arm with a look of annoyance. "But I know you, Margaux. You've done well for yourself, haven't you?" He turned and went back to the sofa, pushing the cat aside where it had sprawled out across his place. "Take a seat."

"I think I'll stand, thank you." She bit her lip. Her heart was racing, but she forced as casual an expression as she could manage. The key was to stay calm, wasn't it? Or, at least... to appear calm. "You..." she cleared her throat, "you still haven't explained what you're doing here."

"Ah. Well. You're going to help me with a little… something."

"What?"

The stranger — Bill — took another sip of tea, then set down the mug and reached for the biscuit tin. 

"You see, Margaux," he began, prying off the lid and rifling through the contents until he found a custard cream, “we’ve had an eye on you for a while.” He took a bite and brushed the resultant crumbs from his lap. "You’ve become something of a celebrity, haven’t you?” He spoke through a mouthful of biscuit. “That’s not important, of course. The important thing is that your husband is a very wealthy man.”

“Ex-husband.”

“Yes, well. Indeed. Originally the plan was to, let’s say _obtain you,_ during your annual holiday in Ischia, but you would go and get divorced, wouldn’t you? I’ll admit, it threw a spanner into the works.”

“Well, I’m sorry that the dissolution of my marriage _inconvenienced you_.”

“I have to say, Margaux, your sarcasm isn’t appreciated.” Bill leaned back and fixed her with a sharp look. “I’ve had to revise six months of planning.”

She looked at the intruder in disbelief.

“Get out of my house."

"I think you misunderstand the balance of power here, Margaux. I want ten million sterling, and you're going to get it for me."

“I’m going to politely ask you once more to leave, and then I’m calling the police."

She reached for her handbag. For her phone. Too late, she heard the creak of the dining room floorboards. At once her arms were pinned behind her back, the contents of her bag skittering across the tiles, a large hand clamped over her mouth.

"By the way, this is Robert. Say hello, Robert."

Margaux writhed and kicked at the man behind her as he lifted her off her feet, her curses muffled by his hand.

"Perhaps now Miss Butler would care to take a seat."

The man carried her into the drawing room and dropped her on the sofa. The cat, whose tail she had landed on, hissed and ran from the room.

"Now, Margaux," Bill fixed her with a disapproving look, "there's no need to get fractious."

She avoided his gaze and tried to regain her composure. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that there were a set of steps she ought to be following right now. The steps she’d learned for South Africa. Who’d have thought she’d need them in her own home? “I… I think I have the right."

"Yes, I suppose you do. However... I think you'll find that co-operation is the best approach."

The other man -- as broad as he was tall, with a permanently dark expression -- sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa, took a gun from beneath his jacket, and began to polish the barrel on the throw rug. Margaux's eyes widened and she felt a tight ball of dread settle heavily in her stomach. Where did people even get guns like that in this country?

"Let me make myself clear, Margaux -- we don't want to hurt you. I don’t see the need for any extraneous violence. But we will find ways to _make_ you co-operate, if you make a nuisance of yourself.”

She nodded slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the gun. "Alright."

"This doesn't have to be unpleasant." Bill finished the biscuit in another bite and continued as he chewed. "As long as everyone plays their part, we'll have our money, and you'll walk away with a story to tell."

"...And what if David won't pay your ransom?"

Robert stopped polishing his gun and looked up. Bill stared at Margaux.

“He’ll pay. Otherwise things will start getting ugly. Biscuit?" He rattled the tin in her direction. Margaux shook her head. "Robert. Get the lady some tea."


	2. A Very English Hostage Situation

While the sounds of slamming cupboard doors jarred around the house, Bill and Margaux sat in silence. Bill didn’t address her, and Margaux didn’t dare to open her mouth. What were the steps? _What were the steps?_  

Bill leaned forward, and she jumped before she realised that he was reaching for the remote. He flicked on the television.

The gentle hiss of the kettle began to build into a dull roar, and soon she heard the gurgle of water being poured. Bill was flicking through the channels.

As Bill settled on an episode of _QI_ , Robert came back with two steaming mugs and held one out with a scowl. Clearly he was more accustomed to being a thug than a waiter.

"Thank you."

Margaux took the mug and cupped her trembling hands around it. 

A panelist onscreen said something, and Bill started laughing. 

It felt as if she were dreaming. Hostages did not sit and drink tea with their kidnappers. Shouldn't she be tied up? Gagged? Shoved in a windowless room somewhere? This was all far too civilised. It might have been a surrealist comedy entitled ' _A Very English Hostage Situation._ ' Except that there was nothing funny about Robert's gun, gleaming in the yellowish, artificial light. The only other gun she’d seen first-hand was a farming friend’s shotgun. This was nothing like that.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Hm?"

She looked down at her tea, avoiding Bill's gaze as he turned back to look at her.

"I asked what you were going to do with me."

" _Do?_ Nothing, just as long as you behave."

"I mean... don't you usually restrain hostages?" She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips.

"Do you think we need to?" Bill's question was tempered with the faintest hint of amusement.

"No..." She kept her eyes on her lap.

"Good."

Margaux took a tentative sip of the scalding hot tea. It was a bit sweet.

"...After you make your demands, won't they come and check the house? 

"Your friends?"

"The police. Don't they have task forces for this kind of thing?"

"Well, it's sweet of you to be concerned, but we won't be staying here."

"Where are we going?"

"If I told you that, Margaux, I might have to kill you."

Bill casually turned his attention back to the television, and Margaux tried to still the trembling that had begun anew, her hands tightening around her mug as her pulse pounded in her ears.

"I, um -- is it alright if I use the loo?"

"Go ahead," Bill responded without looking up. Robert had taken a black laptop from somewhere and didn't acknowledge her. She got to her feet and walked to the door, turning left to go up the stairs.

She got halfway along the upstairs hallway before she began to hyperventilate. As though what was happening had only just begun to sink in. She found herself gasping for breath and fighting back tears of panic, leaning heavily against the wall to stay on her feet.

_I have to get out of here. I have to get out. I need to get out._

She stumbled into the bathroom, holding the wall, and tried to get her breathing back under control. Had they heard her? Of course they had, they must have -- there were only six rooms in the whole cottage, for goodness' sakes. Margaux turned on the cold tap as far as it would go, hoping it would mask the sound of her gasping breaths, and placed her hands either side of the sink, looking at her face in the mirror. Her skin deathly pale, dark red strands of hair escaping the bun at the nape of her neck, eyes wide with fear... she looked like a ghost.

She sat down on the edge of the bath and took the clips from her hair, letting it fall loose over her shoulders. The sheer overlay of her top was torn at the neckline. She hadn't heard it rip when she had been struggling, but then she had had more pressing issues to deal with. Margaux pulled it over her head and exchanged it for one that was hanging over the radiator.

She couldn't let them get away with this. Not if she could help it. Ten million pounds might not have been a ridiculously large sum, but it was big enough to bankrupt someone. It was big enough to bankrupt David. And he would pay -- whether he still loved her or not, he would. And he couldn't afford to. Most of the four hundred million her ex husband was supposedly worth was sunk into debts.

Could she escape? She glanced up at the bathroom window. Yes, it was a cliché, but it was a cliché for a reason. She stood and crossed slowly to the window, hoping that they couldn't hear her walking around. If she were to climb out, it was just a step down to the flat roof of the garage, then a short drop to the shed roof, then... if she got that far, it was just a dash across the gravel to the barn.

She had to go for it. She might never have an opportunity like this again.

Margaux flicked open the brass catches and slowly, desperately slowly, began to push the window open, wincing each time it squeaked in its runners. After what felt like an eternity, it stood open all the way, and Margaux began to climb.


	3. Running

She tumbled into the gooseberry bushes beneath the shed window, and yelped as the thorns of the bramble beneath it lanced at her bare skin. She’d forgotten about the brambles. The gravel of the rear yard pricked and jabbed at her bare feet, but her elation as she looked up at the barn in the moonlight numbed any discomfort. This was the home stretch -- less than fifty feet away was the emergency telephone, the flatbed truck... and freedom.

She darted, limping a little, across the grey expanse of chipped stone to the side door, then stopped, listening.

Nothing but the distant murmur of traffic on the horizon.

Margaux lifted the heavy iron latch and pulled open the door, hoping that the soft creak of its hinges wasn't audible from the house. Satisfied that no one seemed to have heard her, she stumbled her way into the musty blackness of the barn, reaching out ahead of herself in the dark.

Finally, her fingers found the rust-damaged front wing of the truck, and she felt her way around to the side, but as her fingers rested on the door handle she heard a click in the darkness, and something cold was pressed against her temple.

"Get back in the house, Margaux."

Bill's voice struck her like a physical blow. She stepped backwards, out through the door, back into the pale moonlight, and Bill followed, calmly levelling the gun at her. His expression was blank, but his eyes -- hidden with shadows like a mask -- filled her with desperate horror. She wondered in that moment whether she would escape the custody of this man alive. 

There was a brief moment, as Bill stepped over the threshold of the barn door, when his gaze dropped to the ridge of corrugated steel, and instinct took over. 

Margaux ran.

She sprinted left, off the gravel and across the grass, towards the orchard. There was a dull clatter — the gun hitting the ground? Perhaps he’d decided that he didn’t have a clear enough shot not to kill her — then the crunch of gravel as Bill ran after her.

The orchard was dark, but she knew it well, and the moon illuminated the garden just well enough that she could find her way through the close-planted saplings and out into the rows of established trees. From there she had a clear run down the aisles — littered with fallen fruit, waiting to be tripped over — and if she could only get to the other side, she might reach Tom’s land. If she could reach his house, she might be safe.

“Why are you running, Margaux?” Bill’s voice rang out in the dark. “Is it worth what’s going to happen when I catch you?”

He was behind her — maybe a hundred yards behind, and slightly to her left. She’d hoped he might be further away. He hadn’t had as much trouble getting through the trees as she would have liked.

“If you come back now, I’ll let this go. But if I have to catch you…”

Oh christ. He was catching up. Margaux veered off to the right, then the left, taking a diagonal route through the rows. It was taking her further from Tom’s house, but if there even the slightest chance that Bill might lose track of her…

But he was still close. Too close. Closer than before. She couldn’t outrun him.

She ducked between two close-planted trees, stopped, and froze, taking shallow gasps of cold night air as she listened for the sound of Bill running.

Nothing.

Where the hell was he?

Had he run past her? No. He couldn’t have. He’d been just a few turns behind her just seconds ago.

Then she heard it. The rumble of an engine. The rattle of metal. She turned to follow the sound, and saw a line of glaring yellow floodlights cresting the hill. A tractor was trundling over the hillside between groups of sleeping cattle. 

Tom.

He was closer than she’d dared hope — a few rows of trees, a leap over the fence, and then a short sprint would get her to him. And Tom always carried his shotgun.

She made a break for it.

She didn’t know where Bill was. It didn’t matter. As long as he didn’t know where she was either.

The tractor turned, and as it did, the beams from the lights on its roof swept across the orchard, throwing tall shadows across the grass.

Margaux saw Bill, directly ahead of her. He stopped mid-stride, a tall silhouette from a nightmare, and though she couldn’t see his face, she knew that he’d seen her. She broke right, hoping to get around him, but she could hear the thump of boots in the grass.

One row from the edge of the orchard, and she could see the fence.

A snapping twig was all the warning she got. He came from the left, throwing his weight on top of her, and they tumbled to the ground. She screamed, struggling beneath the lean but nevertheless substantially larger form that pinned her to the grass, and he clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Don’t make it worse, Margaux. Stay still and shut the fuck up.”

The tractor had stopped. She could hear the scrape of rubber soles on the wheel arch as Tom climbed down from the cab. What was he doing? Had he heard them?

She couldn’t see what was going on. She could only look up at the man holding her down. One side of his face was illuminated, the intense blue of his gaze directed towards whatever was happening in the field.

A group of cattle lowed softly somewhere nearby, and she heard Tom sigh.

“Are the foxes both’rin’ you, ladies?” Silence for a while. “Hm. Must’ve been.”

He was walking the length of the fence, attaching something to it at regular intervals. Maybe he’d finally decided to try that fox repellent idea he’d been talking about. His footsteps moved closer, and Bill looked down at Margaux, bringing the forefinger of his free hand to his lips. She glared up at him.

They lay there for what might have been ten minutes, but felt to Margaux like an hour. This total stranger’s weight pressing down on top of her was not the most enjoyable of sensations, especially as her skirt had ridden up to the top of her thighs; the wet, cold grass was gradually soaking her clothes; and she was starting to taste the smell of his aftershave.

Eventually, the engine stuttered back to life, and the lights turned back towards the farm. Bill dragged Margaux to her feet, his fingers tightening like a vice around her arm, and he began to drag her back towards the house.

*

"How far did she get?"

Bill slammed the kitchen door behind him, and Margaux flinched.

"She went straight for the car." He grasped her shoulder tightly, one finger of his black cotton glove brushing her neck, and he brought his mouth to her ear. "Very clever, under normal circumstances... but very stupid under these."

He guided her into the drawing room and pushed her firmly into the armchair, then sat down on the sofa and fixed her with an earnest look, leaning towards her with his hands clasped in front of him.

"I thought we had a deal, Margaux."

"I didn't promise I wouldn't escape."

"Oh, now now, that just isn't true. You promised you would behave yourself -- I don't believe running away could be classed as behaving, now, could it?"

She was silent.

"Could it, Margaux?"

"...No." She sobbed quietly.

"No, it couldn't. I trust you enough to give you five minutes' privacy, and this is how you repay me. Do you know how that makes me look?"

"I..."

"It makes me look like a cunt, Margaux."

He stared at her, and she looked down at the carpet, tears glistening on her cheeks. The silence hung between them like a tangible presence. Finally, he stood.

"If you ever try that again, I'll break your legs.”

He strode from the room, and she heard him talking to the other man:

"Take her upstairs. She'll need her beauty sleep."

*

Robert pulled a chair from the spare room that also served as Margaux's study and sat down in the corner. Margaux stood next to the bed and stared at him.

"Are you going to sit there all night?"

"Apparently."

He took a book at random from the shelf and opened it.

"Can I have two minutes to change?"

He looked at her incredulously.

“I don't think so, somehow."

“Okay… fine."

She lay down on top of the duvet and rolled onto her side, laying her head on her arms. Downstairs, she could hear Bill moving around. How had he known she was escaping? Or at least, how had he had enough time to hear her climb out of the window, and get out to the barn ahead of her?

There was something ruthlessly efficient about that man, something terrifying.

What chance did she have? What was she supposed to do?

She was starting to remember the steps.

The first step: _attempt to prevent the abduction._

Well, that wasn’t going very well so far. Unless there was some kind of opportunity as they tried to leave in the morning, Margaux thought she could safely say that she had failed on that front.

Next was… what was it?

_Regain your composure._

That was alright, she supposed. She wasn’t screaming or trying to attack anyone — that was about as composed as she was likely to get. But she had to remember to stay that way, if she could. That might be a little harder.

Next: _be observant._ What had she seen so far? There were two of them here — none outside, she didn’t think. Otherwise, would they not have stopped her themselves? Okay, so assuming for now there were only two… she had names (assuming those names were real), and she could describe them to the police. That was, of course, if they released her. If they didn’t just kill her. Margaux felt her breathing start to quicken, and forced herself to take deep breaths. She couldn’t think about things like that. She had to stay calm.

_Okay, think, just think about what you’ve seen._

They had a laptop. That was presumably important in some way. They were armed. That was definitely important, if for a different reason. Overall they seemed prepared, unemotional — professional. Maybe they’d even done this before. Had that person come out of it alive? The idea that they were professional actually comforted her a little. Perhaps they’d be less likely to get carried away. Perhaps she’d be… well, safer was the wrong word, but in _slightly less_ danger.

Next step: _ascertain why you’ve been abducted._

That part was easy, at least. And she was grateful, she supposed, that she hadn’t come home to find a serial killer on the sofa.

Next: _Keep a survival attitude._ She wasn’t entirely certain of what constituted a ‘survival attitude’, but she would do her best. She wasn’t exactly looking to die.

 _Put your captor at ease_ , that was the next thing. Stay calm. Co-operate. Don’t… try to escape, unless the time is right. 

Well, she’d ballsed that up. It might take a long time before Bill and Robert relaxed enough to be ‘at ease’ now. Damn it.

What was next?

_Keep your dignity._

She was supposed to keep herself human in their eyes. Worthy of respect. She doubted she could manage as much as ‘respect’, but if she was good at anything, it was putting on a front and telling people what they wanted to hear.

She’d cried already — it was hard not to, she could admit that — but she thought they probably expected her to, anyway. She was young. Female. Alone. As long as she didn’t become hysterical. She had to do her best to be stronger.

 _Get talking,_ that was another thing. Don’t talk too much, but get them talking. Establish some kind of… rapport.

Margaux turned onto her back and sat up.

"What are you two going to do with the money?"

The man didn't look up from the book.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you."

"That's not very fair."

"Tough luck."

She lay back down with a soft huff and frowned, looking up at the ridge in the ceiling where the plaster under the textured paper had cracked. He wasn’t up for conversation, clearly, but his tone had been polite enough. Maybe if she said the right thing, he might still open up.

“Have you done anything like this before?”

“What?”

“Kidnapping someone.”

“Technically, we haven’t kidnapped you yet.”

Margaux forced a small smile.

“That’s true. But… have you?”

“Not anyone you’d know.”

She rested her forearms on her knees and met Robert’s eye for the first time. He didn’t scare her like Bill did, even with his size and implied penchant for violence.

“How long did you keep them for?”

He smirked.

“Are you bored of us already, Margaux?”

“I… I just want it to be over.”

“But it’s barely begun. There’s a lot to go through yet. Think of the autobiography you’ll get out of it.”

“I guess.”

Margaux didn’t much care for the implications of what he’d said. What if they were the kind of kidnappers who sent a bit of you with the ransom note?

She was silent for a long time. Each turn of the page as Robert read was absurdly loud. Margaux realised eventually that Bill couldn’t still be watching television downstairs — the sound would be carrying if he were. What was he doing?

“Why did you choose me?”

“Why _not_ you?”

Margaux hesitated. It was a fair point, she supposed. “I just think you might’ve been better off nabbing an actress, or a politician’s wife, or… something. I’m not very important.”

She regretted saying it instantly. If she wasn’t important, there was no reason not to kill her, was there?

“You’ll do just fine.”

“…I hope so.” 

Her eyes wandered up to the contours of the ceiling-crack again. What if David refused to pay? What if he was still angry? Would he be angry enough to let her die?

And then there was the small problem of…

"I've seen both your faces."

"What?"

"I've seen your faces. I could identify you to the police."

Robert was silent.

"You're not going to let me go, are you? You can't."

“Course we are. Just do what you're told, and as soon as we've got the money you can go. Exactly like we told you.”

Margaux turned away, not wanting the man to see her if she started crying again. She lay down on the bed and stared at the wall. Suddenly she didn’t feel much like talking.

After a while, Robert put the book back on the shelf and turned off the lamp, and Margaux drifted into a fitful slumber.

*

Bill reclined on the sofa, one foot on the coffee table, watching the grainy greyscale image on the laptop screen.

She was asleep, shifting from position to position. She rolled onto her back, and as she moved her leg her skirt slipped back to reveal the pale length of her thigh.

A creak on the stairs announced Robert's presence before he spoke in a low whisper:

"She's out."

"I know."

He minimised the box, and the window reverted to small thumbnails of each room in the house, tiled across the screen.

"I didn't think she'd make a break for it yet."

Bill smirked.

"She was bound to."

"Do you think she'll be any more trouble?"

"Probably."

"Maybe if we tied her up--"

"I don't think there's any need for that. Margaux knows the risks of breaking the rules."

"And if she runs again?"

"Then I'll do exactly what I told her I'd do. She won't be running anywhere after that."


	4. New Surroundings

"Get up."

Margaux groaned softly and opened her eyes a little. Only the vaguest hint of day filtered around the curtain -- not enough to light the room -- but she recognised the voice well enough to know that it was Bill who was standing over her. Looking… down.

She pulled her skirt back down over her legs, avoiding looking back up at Bill, and sat up to look at the clock. 

04:13.

"We're going — pack yourself some things. Bring something warm."

He dropped a black kit bag in her lap and went back downstairs.

*

"Did you wipe everything down?"

Margaux caught the snatch of conversation from the kitchen as she descended the stairs.

"Obviously."

Bill noticed her standing nervously in the hall and beckoned her towards him. "You're ready. Good." 

He held out his hand for the bag, and she handed it over. Immediately he threw it on the dining room table and unzipped it. She blushed angrily and looked at the floor -- the first thing he had taken out was her underwear. His gloved fists overflowed with jewel-coloured lace. 

“A bit fruity given the circumstances, but fine."

"I don't have anything else." She could feel his eyes on her. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

He ignored the comment. "Coat. Jeans. Cardigans. Alright. And you brought a washbag. Sensible.”

He took out the bag and rifled through its contents.

"There are a lot of sharp implements in here, Margaux. Do you expect me to let you keep these?"

She was silent. She’d just picked it up from the bathroom cabinet — not thinking about what might be inside it. She hoped he wasn’t angry. 

He took out the razor, tweezers, and the steel pore tools in their clear plastic case, and put the washbag back.

"You can have the rest, but I'm keeping these. Rob, bring the car around."

He put the objects in his jacket pocket and went through to the drawing room, leaving Margaux to angrily stuff her things back into the bag.

*

Bill took the keys from Margaux’s handbag and unlocked the front door. The little knitted sheep keyring dangling from his black-gloved fingers was like a horror film poster. Laying his fingers on the door handle, he turned to look at her.

"You know what happens if you try to run now, don't you?"

"I wasn’t planning on running.”

"Good."

He watched her slipping on her shoes with an intensity that made her skin prickle, then opened the door. Outside, a white transit van idled with the side door open.

"Get in."

She walked down the path and stepped up into the van, sitting down on the bare floor with her back against the plywood siding. He threw the bag in after her and slammed the door, leaving her in almost total darkness. 

A few minutes passed. 

Through the thin board that separated her from the front seats, she could hear the soft murmur of the two men's voices. Eventually, she heard the engine revving, and they started to move.

*

She couldn't have guessed how long they had been driving. She lay on the floor with her head on the kitbag, listening to the unintelligible hum of the radio. She was sure they stopped a few times -- for petrol, probably -- but mostly the hours melded into one eternal moment of rattling, growling darkness.

*

Margaux was asleep when the door rattled open on its runners. She opened her eyes to a square of overcast daylight in the doorway. Robert was standing expectantly in a hooded anorak. Rain poured from the sky as though someone was tipping it from a bottle.

"Come on. Get out."

Less than ten feet from the van was the front door of a stone cottage. She stepped out into the rain and rushed to the open door. Even that short distance in this weather was enough to soak every scrap of her clothing, and as she walked into the large, low-ceilinged kitchen, Bill smirked at the state of her.

Robert followed with Margaux's bag in hand and shut the door behind them, throwing the keys on the kitchen table.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

He stood from his seat at the kitchen table, and Margaux bit her lip.

"You should dry off." Bill said, walking towards her. She backed away without thinking, and stopped herself. _Don’t make him angry._

“I guess so.”

"But not yet."

In two more steps he was looking down at her. Without warning, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her roughly against the wall. He grasped the neckline of her top, and tore the thin fabric downward until the purple lace of her bra showed. Margaux's fingers closed around his wrist, trying to prevent the further destruction of all that stood between her and baring her flesh to these strangers, and without warning his free hand snapped upwards, striking her across one cheek. She looked up at him in fear and bewilderment as he gripped her jaw and studied her face dispassionately.

"That won't do. Let’s try again, shall we?”

“No, please—”

He drew back his hand and hit her again: this time so hard that she fell sideways, and felt blood start to well over her bottom lip.

"Better. Rob, where's the video camera?"

“In the bag by the stove."

Robert had watched all of this from his seat at the table. He noted the tears that had begun to stain Margaux's cheeks with cold satisfaction before he got up to retrieve the aforementioned camera. Once he had it in hand, along with a long-legged tripod, he looked at Bill expectantly.

"The biggest blank wall is in the bedroom. Set it up on the desk."

Robert left the room, and Bill grabbed Margaux by her wrists, hauling her back to her feet. He took a roll of gaffer tape from the nearest bag and forced her over the table, pulling her arms behind her to tape her wrists together.

"What are you doing?"

"We're going to make a little film, Margaux. I thought that much was obvious."

"Don't hurt me... please..." The request came out in a quivering murmur.

"Margaux, Margaux..." He pulled her upright and marched her through a door at the rear of the kitchen, leading her down a narrow hallway until they reached the last door. Inside was a single bed with a metal frame, a wooden desk, and Robert. "I told you -- no one is going to hurt you, as long as everyone does what they're supposed to." 

Robert moved into the far corner of the tiny room to allow Bill to walk Margaux in and sit her on the bed, directly in front of the camera. With the two men standing out of shot, Bill reached over and switched the camera on. A red LED lit up and and began to blink. The blood on Margaux's lip had begun to trickle down, and had reached the point where soft pink flesh gave way to pale peach skin.

"Read this."

Robert held a sheet of paper beneath the camera lens, and Margaux began to read, trying to ignore Bill's cold, predatory gaze.

"W-we have Margaux Butler in our custody. We are asking for ten million pounds in unmarked notes—“

"There's no danger in this."

"What?"

Bill leaned against the doorframe and looked at Margaux's shaking form.

"We need to scare them." He strode into shot -- visible from the waist down on the tiny preview screen -- and grabbed Margaux by her hair, forcing her to look at the camera. "As you can see, we have Margaux here with us." Her scalp was in agony, and she whimpered and closed her eyes. Bill yanked her hair again roughly. "Look at the camera, Margaux. They'll want to see your pretty eyes." He laid his other hand on her shoulder, and she noticed that he had removed his gloves. "Ten million pounds will do nicely. We'll contact you with further instructions. In the meantime, should you attempt to find and rescue Miss Butler, things will get very nasty indeed. Say goodbye, Margaux."

*

"I don't understand how you're going to pick up the money without getting arrested."

Margaux sat on a low stool by the stove, holding a tissue to her lip. She had changed out of her wet clothes, but her body still felt like it was submerged in ice water, and her wrists stung from the abrupt removal of the gaffer tape.

"You just let us worry about that." Bill didn't look up from the laptop. 

He and Robert sat at the kitchen table. The camera was hooked to the USB port -- they were editing the ransom video, she supposed. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

"How will you send them the video?"

"Robert will be driving to a suitably distant Post Office."

"So they can't trace the postmark?"

Bill turned his head and looked at her. "You seem very interested in all of this."

"I'm interested in everything." She went back to dabbing at her lip, checking the tissue periodically in hopes that the bleeding had stopped. "Besides, when I write about this I'll need details."

For a moment Bill's expression came dangerously close to a smile. He turned back to the computer screen.

"In a week your ex-husband will receive the film on a disc, with instructions. A week should give everyone enough time to start wondering where you are. The postmark will, as you said, be untraceable. Is that enough detail for you, Margaux?"

"I suppose. Telling me where we are might be nice."

"Don't push your luck, Margaux."


	5. Dinner and a Show

One of them looked in on her every so often, but mostly they left Margaux to wander around the cottage as she pleased. She wasn't about to complain, but she was surprised... until she saw it.

Right there, in the corner of the tiny, cluttered room that housed a two-piece suite, coffee table and television, was a camera. It sat directly on top of a fishing trophy -- a trout in a glass case -- so she hadn't seen it at first, but as boredom drew her eye across every inch of the room, she had found herself staring into that single, glossy black eye, and everything fell into place.

Of course Bill had known she was escaping -- they had been watching her the whole time.

*

"There's some Chinese. Want some?"

Margaux looked up from the spot she had been absently staring at on the bedroom wall. Bill was standing in the doorway, holding an open silver container and a fork.

"Chinese?"

"Yes. Chinese. I assume you've had it before?" He raised an eyebrow derisively.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Do you want some food, or not?" She was about to say no, but her stomach gave an answering rumble. "I thought so. Come on."

Margaux's heart gave a little leap as she got up from the bed and followed Bill into the kitchen: all she had seen from the windows was an expanse of grass, low shrubs and heather, but if they'd bought a takeaway from somewhere, there must be a town nearby.

Robert was opening up the folded corners of the boxes on the table and discarding the paper lids. She had to admit, looking down at the thinly-sliced meat and vegetables, gleaming with dark sauce, that she was very, very hungry. They were approaching the evening of the second day, and she hadn't eaten since the morning she got on the Eurostar from Paris.

"There's kung po pork, or Szechuan duck. Take your pick."

Bill had evidently already made his choice. Strands of chow mein hung from his fork as he watched her. She wished he'd stop looking at her like that.

"Um --" Margaux glanced at Robert. "I'll just have whatever's left."

"She's polite." Bill laughed and crossed to the fridge, briefly sticking his fork in the container so that he could take a can of Guinness from the shelf. "She can't be trusted, but at least she's polite."

"I told you I wasn't going to run again."

Margaux handed Robert a fork from the drawer and took the remaining rectangular box -- the pork.

"And I so want to believe you, Margaux, but you'll have to earn that trust back."

He gestured for her to follow him, and he led her into the little sitting room. Robert stayed in the kitchen, eating robotically as he stared at the laptop screen.

"I don't know what else I can do."

"Just keep doing what you're told. No, Margaux, on the sofa."

She frowned and stood from the armchair, moving across the room to sit at the furthest end of the sofa from Bill. Even so, there was barely two feet between them.

"I thought perhaps a film."

Margaux shrugged, moving to curl her legs under her, and held her food on her lap, savouring the smell of it.

"You might have said, if you were hungry."

"I didn't want to impose," she responded dryly. Bill smirked and put his food down on the little table that stood against the wall.

"There are some VHS tapes. Nothing post nineteen ninety-eight but I'm sure you don't mind that."

He took a pile of the plastic cases from beneath the TV stand and put them on the seat between them. They were all fairly old Brit-flicks -- mostly from the seventies. Margaux made a show of surveying the faded covers, but more than anything she was trying to figure out Bill's game. Was this some kind of power play, or was he genuinely giving her a choice?

It didn't really matter, she supposed. He was better at this than she was -- she just had to go with it.

"How about this one?" She pushed _The Man Who Fell to Earth_ slightly towards him. "I like David Bowie."

"As does anyone with any taste. Good choice."

He opened the case with a casual air and held up the tape.

"They didn't rewind. Fuckers."

Margaux laughed, then put her hand to her mouth. How would he respond to laughter? He looked at her and smiled. Actually smiled. 

That was the problem, Margaux reflected, as Bill leaned over to put the tape into the VCR -- that was what was really frightening about him. Even in this moment, which felt strangely like normal social interaction, she couldn't relax: her still-throbbing lip was a reminder of his total unpredictability.

He set the tape rewinding and returned to the sofa, taking an ancient remote from the top of the set and handing it to her. It was grimy and smelled oddly of damp. That was probably a bad sign. She put the pile of tapes on the floor and set the remote gingerly on the seat between them as Bill went back to his food.

They sat for a few minutes, eating quietly while the machine whirred and groaned. She wondered when it had last been used.

"You're young to be divorced."

The statement came out of nowhere. Margaux finished her mouthful before she answered.

"It's not uncommon."

"Twenty-three is young."

"I suppose."

She regarded the man next to her without looking at him directly. He wasn't looking at her. Thankfully. How old was he? He might have been anywhere between her age and the mid-thirties. But then she was terrible at guessing ages.

"It must have been quite a settlement."

"I didn't take any of David's money."

"Even after the prostitutes?”

She looked at him, and he looked back with the vaguest hint of a grin. He was trying to get to her.

"It wasn't the first time he did it, it was just the first time the press found out."

"And I suppose you had a guilty conscience."

" _What?_ "

"You were having an affair with that actor, weren't you?" His tone was conversational, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Which one?" She tried to keep the snippiness from her voice, but it was difficult when he was deliberately touching a nerve.

"The leading man in your new film."

"He's married."

"I believe that's why they call it an affair."

"He loves his wife. We're friends."

"If you say so, Margaux." He picked up the remote and pressed play: it had reached the ads just before the film. He started to fast-forward. "This is the one thing I miss. You can't skip the ads on DVDs."

That was it, then. He'd finished baiting her. For now.

"Shall I get the light?"

"Thanks."

Margaux tried to pay attention to the film, but she couldn't stop herself from continually glancing at Bill’s profile in the dark. He was handsome, she supposed -- probably the sort of man she'd find attractive under normal circumstances -- but all she saw when she looked at him was that expression of cold indifference as he aimed a gun at her face. It was hard to make an objective judgement about someone who frightened her so much.

When he finished his food, she held out her hand for the container without a word. 

Margaux walked back through to the kitchen, dumping the silver boxes in the bin and the forks in the sink. Robert was still sitting at the table with the laptop.

"What are you doing that takes so long?"

"Nothing you need to know about."

He closed the screen as she went to look over his shoulder, and she frowned.

"You're not going to watch the movie, then?"

"No."

"Oh... Okay." 

Margaux turned and walked back down the hall to the sitting room, but she couldn't stop herself from hesitating just before the door.

No, this was ridiculous. If she was much longer he would ask her what she'd been doing. She took a calming breath and went back in.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were coming back."

"I wasn't that long." She returned to her seat, hugging herself defensively.

"You were talking to Robert."

"No I wasn't."

"Don't lie to me, Margaux."

"...I just wanted to know what he was doing out there."

"What Robert is doing is none of your concern."

"That's what he said."

"...Good."

He moved to lean back, resting one foot on the opposite knee and laying his arm across the back of the sofa. Margaux wished that there was more space to edge away. His hand, lying behind her shoulder, was like a pale tarantula -- one that might decide to bite at any moment.

"Relax, Margaux, you're making me nervous."

He paused, then started laughing.


	6. Breakfast

Margaux woke up slowly, inside a cocoon of slightly itchy warmth. When she opened her eyes, she found herself lying on the sofa, covered in an afghan blanket. 

She sat up, pushing it off her, and yawned, stretching out her arms. There were some noises in the kitchen, and something smelled good. She stood, pulling her cardigan back down where it had ridden up in her sleep, and started down the hall.

"Good morning."

Bill was standing at the oven, cooking something on the hob. He had a tea towel draped over his shoulder. It made him look strangely human.

"What time is it?"

"Seven."

Margaux sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed her eyes. "What are you making?"

"Pancakes. You want one?"

He shook the pan back and forth, then flicked it upwards, and the paper-thin circle flipped into the air, turning before it came back down. Margaux couldn't help but be impressed.

"When did I fall asleep?"

"About halfway through _The Wicker Man_ , I believe."

"Sorry."

"It was no problem. You don't snore."

The thought that she'd fallen asleep right next to Bill sent a shiver down her spine.

"Didn't I kick you? I usually kick."

"No. You were fairly peaceful." He slid the pancake from the frying pan onto a plate and set it in front of her.

"Thank you."

He went back to the hob to start making another, and Margaux got up to get some cutlery.

"I could never do that right."

"What?"

"Flip pancakes. I just make a mess."

"Do you want me to teach you?"

Margaux eyed him warily. "...I don't know."

"If I wanted to hurt you, Margaux, I would just do it."

"I suppose."

"Come here."

She set the cutlery down on the table and went to stand beside him. He put a hand on her shoulder and moved her between him and the oven.

"Hold the handle firmly, but keep your wrist flexible."

"Alright."

"Now shake the pan to loosen it from the bottom." He laid his hand over hers on the handle, and she tried to ignore how close he was standing -- close enough to smell his aftershave, though not as overwhelmingly as last night. Was it _Fahrenheit_? It smelled very much like it. "Flick your wrist."

The pancake flew almost to the ceiling and made a soft sound as it hit the pan once more.

"Easy."

Despite her fear, Margaux laughed.

"You just did all that!"

"I never did."

"You definitely did. I had nothing to do with it."

A hint of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. "Alright, do the next one."

He stayed where he was, looking down over her shoulder, but took his hand away. Margaux poured more batter into the pan and swirled it into shape.

After a minute or so she started to shake the handle.

"Now... flick."

It didn't go particularly high, but the pancake flipped over neatly.

"See -- you're a natural."

"You're just a good teacher."

"I'm flattered."

He turned away and sat down at the table as Robert came in, looking bleary.

"Morning, all."

"Margaux's made you some breakfast, Robert."

The warmth that had entered his voice was gone. Margaux sat down and shook lemon juice over her pancake -- it had gone cold -- and quietly ate her breakfast while the two men murmured amongst themselves.

*

She was curled up in the armchair, reading the only book she'd been able to find -- a trashy romance from 1963 -- when Bill strode into the room and shoved something at her. It was her phone, and it was ringing. They stared at each other as the _Doctor Who_ theme rattled off cheerfully.

"Answer it. As if you're at home."

"W-what should I say?"

"You're the writer here, Margaux. Make something up."

She took the phone from Bill's outstretched hand and shakily lifted it to her ear, pressing the green key. Bill sat opposite her, taking the gun from his jacket. As if she needed reminding.

"H-hello?"

"Margaux, _where the FUCK_ were you today?"

"David. Hi."

"Don't 'hi' me, Margaux. Where were you?"

The publicity meeting. She'd completely forgotten.

"I... I've been in bed with flu. I caught something in Paris."

"Bullshit, Margaux, you just couldn't be fucked, could you? You wanted to make me look like a schmuck!"

"It's not like that, David, I--"

"This is exactly like you. Is it because I asked Sally to marry me?"

"What? No, of course not--"

"It's not enough that you don't want me -- you don't want me to be happy with anyone, do you?"

"I'm sorry, David." Her voice cracked.

"Oh, don't start fucking crying, Margaux. I don't have to give a shit whether you cry any more."

Margaux had had enough. She handed Bill the phone, and as it passed between them she could still hear David shouting. Bill dropped the call.

"He seemed like a nice chap."

"He's a real charmer." Margaux wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"You're off the grid starting now. The next time you talk to him, he'll know we have you."

He stood and moved to the doorway, his eyes lingering on her for a heartbeat before he turned and left.


	7. Cooperation

The days passed so quickly.

It's the generally accepted wisdom that time flies when you're having fun, but, as Margaux reflected, it can also be true when one is so bored that the hours blend together into an eternity of inaction. 

And this was definitely the case. 

After the second day in this new place, the third day in these strangers' custody, she could comfortably say that she had explored every room that wasn't locked, and knew every little detail of each room rather better than she wanted to. She had even given the moth-eaten hunting trophies names: the buck's head behind the sitting room door was called Mickey, she had decided, and after she had discovered a split beanbag in the airing cupboard she had taken to throwing the little white foam balls at it, trying to get them in its mouth. 

On the fifth day, Margaux was half-lying in the armchair, playing this very game, when Bill walked in.

He glanced down at the tiny white balls that littered the fading carpet, then back at her.

"Get your coat."

"Are we moving?" Margaux couldn't help but let slip a hopeful tone in her question. At least if they moved she would have something new to look at.

"No."

"...Oh." She swung her leg down from where it hung over the arm of the chair, and stood up, looking down at her jeans as she brushed off a stray piece of filling that clung to the fabric.

"I thought you might like to go outside."

Margaux looked up at him. No hint in those eyes as to whether this was a cruel joke.

"Ou-outside?"

"I thought the exercise might stop you getting..." he looked at the foam again, "restless."

"I'm sorry about that. I-I'll clean it up--"

"Do it later. Right now I want you to get your coat."

*

Robert glanced up from the laptop as Margaux sat down to slip on her boots, but said nothing. What was the dynamic here? Well, obviously Bill was in charge -- at least as far as she could tell -- but even so, wasn't Robert getting annoyed at being left with all the work... whatever it was that he was doing?

Bill opened the front door, and for a moment Margaux could only stare at the landscape beyond the portal. The world outside had started to become something which she assumed she would only see again once she was free.

"Go on."

He stood and waved her through, and she took a tentative step out onto the doorstep.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Margaux took her first breath in days of clean, fresh air.

"You've behaved well so far, Margaux."

It was another overcast day, grey and dim, but as she looked out over the purplish hills, and the road that wound down between them, silvery with this morning's rain, Margaux thought that she had never seen anything more beautiful in all her life.

"I suppose."

"I wanted to show you the benefits of doing what you're told."

"It's not as if I've had much choice."

She pulled her coat tight around her and thrust her hands in her pockets. Her shoes -- the smart military-style boots that she had worn for the last book-signing -- felt a little awkward in these surroundings, but she was grateful at least that she hadn't come home that first strange night wearing stilettos. Almost as grateful as she was that she hadn’t had to come here in the skirt she’d come home in.

"As long as you keep doing what I want, Margaux, there's no reason your little stay with us shouldn't be comfortable. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I suppose."

Bill grasped her arm, and she flinched.

"That way."

He pointed to a dirt path that went down one side of the house, then up a set of uneven steps. She walked ahead of him, wary of his eyes on her back -- she could almost feel them burning a hole in her -- but she was far too glad of being outside to think about it for long.

They came out among a patch of heather and yellow-flowered, spiny gorse bushes, at the top of the hill.

There was a footpath. An honest-to-goodness public footpath. There was even a little wooden signpost with its plastic marker. Margaux looked down at a boot print in the mud. She couldn't decide whether to feel relief at being so close to other people -- potentially so close to freedom -- or to feel despair at Bill's apparent confidence, that no one would suspect what was going on in the little cottage on the hill.

"Cross over." 

Bill pulled up the collar of his coat against the wind and directed her across the footpath and down the hill. Margaux stepped tentatively down the slope, listening to the crunch of the twigs beneath Bill's boots as he followed her.

"It's cold out." She couldn't suppress a smile as she rubbed her hands together. Bill didn't respond. "It looks like it might rain again soon." Still nothing. Margaux resolved not to bother making conversation. Instead she focused her attention on her surroundings. She ran her hands across the top of the heather as she walked through a patch, revelling in the smell of the flowers and the cold droplets of water on her skin. 

On the opposing hilltop, she could just make out little pale shapes -- sheep? It certainly looked like sheep country. She'd mostly given up, in the last few days, trying to figure out where they were, but as she regarded the hills around them she couldn't help but wonder. They must be in Scotland -- that was fairly obvious -- but it was a big old country, so that didn't narrow down the possibilities much.

A protruding root caught around her toe, and as she tripped forwards she felt Bill grab her elbow. He hauled her back, a little too hard, and she fell back against him.

"Alright?"

She swallowed nervously.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Thank you."

She pulled away and started to walk again, and when they reached a patch of flat ground Bill started to walk level with her. She was shaking again. The moment his fingers had tightened around her arm, she had remembered the cold indifference with which he had pinned her against the kitchen wall. Her arms came up almost unconsciously, and as she hugged herself she felt rather than saw Bill's eyes on her.

"Robert is posting the disc today."

"Oh."

Bill stopped, looking down at the slow-moving traffic in the distance with his hands in his coat pockets.

"David should receive it in a couple of days. Perhaps as long as a week."

"What happens then?"

"He'll have a number to call."

"So... you just wait for the call."

"We do."

"How long will Robert be gone?"

A strange look passed through Bill's eyes, and Margaux looked away.

"You seem to talk to him often."

Margaux frowned.

"I have to talk to _somebody_.”

Bill stopped her as she started to walk again, a hand on her shoulder turning her to face him.

"You ought to be careful, Margaux. He isn't your friend."

She almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

"And I suppose you are?"

"Now, Margaux, did I say that?"

The intensity of his gaze was too much -- Margaux tried to pull free of his grasp, to turn away, but he only tightened his grip. She couldn't take much more of this. She would have preferred being locked up somewhere to having to play out each day with these men, acting out a vague approximation of real human interaction.

"I'd like to go back now. Please."

*

"What are you doing?"

Robert was behind her. 

Margaux was standing at the sink, filling the kettle.

"I'm making some tea."

"Bill said not to let you use the kettle."

"Why not?"

Bill entered the kitchen and leaned against the wall, a mug in his hand.

"The same reason you're not allowed near the knives."

"What am I going to do with the kettle -- hit you with it?"

"Boiling water can be a dangerous weapon."

"I'd never do that. That's horrible."

"Wouldn't you, Margaux?"

"No!"

He was silent, watching her. Expressionless.

"Alright. Let her use it." He took a sip from his mug. "She knows what will happen if she tries anything. Don't you, Margaux?"

"I could hardly forget."

Bill walked into the kitchen, and as he passed where she stood he laid one hand on her shoulder.

"Good girl."


	8. Watching the Tigers

Robert left not long after they got back to the cottage. Margaux listened to the van's engine rumbling out of earshot with a growing sense of dread.

Bill locked the front door, and walked down the hall to the sitting room without looking at her. 

Margaux sat at the table, cradling her mug of tea, and couldn't help but watch him as he left. There was something fascinating about him -- like watching a deadly animal at a zoo... except that she was on the same side of the glass as this one.

She heard the soft creak of him sitting down on the sofa, then the murmur of the television coming on. Was it the news?

She listened for a while, trying to see if she could make out what the newsreader was saying, and savoured the sweet, slightly bitter warmth of her tea. She felt a strange compulsion to go into the sitting room, and it wasn't anything to do with the news report. What was wrong with her? Was she so desperate for company that she would follow that sociopath around like an abused and lonely puppy?

This wouldn't do. She needed some time to think, somewhere private and safe. 

She could have used a wash, too.

She'd have to ask. Would he let her? He had to -- hadn't he spoken earlier about the rewards of good behaviour? There was no logical reason for him to refuse... though logic didn't always seem to matter.

Margaux rinsed out her empty mug beneath the tap, set it on the draining board, and headed down the hallway.

"Um..."

Bill looked up at her. He seemed to be dividing his attention between the news broadcast and the laptop on his knee.

"If you don't mind, I was going to have a bath."

He looked back at the television screen with an air of disinterest.

"Go ahead."

"...Do you think I could have my razor?"

"What do you want it for?"

"I'm not going to attack you with it."

"I was more concerned about you doing yourself some harm."

He closed the laptop and stood abruptly. Margaux found herself backed up against the wall in the hallway.

"L-living with the two of you isn't that unbearable."

"That's good to know."

He turned from her and walked down the hall to the middle door -- the one which was always locked. After a few moments he emerged from the room and held out her razor. For a moment all she could do was blink at it. That had almost been too easy.

"Thank you."

She took the blue-handled razor from his hand and turned to go.

"Margaux? Don't lock the door."

"I know."

*

The water was heaven.

After running the taps for a while, she couldn't seem to get the water as hot as she would have liked, but at this point she believed she would have accepted any temperature above freezing.

Margaux reclined against the pale enamel of the bath -- flinching at first as the cold surface touched her back -- and let her head loll back. This was the closest she had come to feeling relaxed in days. She let out a quiet sigh, held her breath and let herself slip down into the warm water to soak her hair.

*

He had no particular intention of interrupting the moment of privacy he had afforded her, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that he could.

Bill watched Margaux's pale limbs as they moved in a slow dance of lather.

She knew about the cameras -- he had seen her look directly into more than one of them -- but had she noticed this one? She had never once acknowledged it, but equally possible was that she was simply accustomed to the cameras' presence, and had stopped caring whether they watched her.

She rinsed the foam from her upper body and sat upright, kneeling up out of the water. The resolution of the camera feed was too low to make out the details of her form -- the delicate tattoos that illustrated a quarter of her back were nothing more than a dark blur, and her hands as they moved up to the generous swell of her chest seemed to jump from position to position -- but the image she presented was enough to feed the imagination.

This display, if it could be called that, was hardly in keeping with the meek, reserved nature of the little creature he had been living with.

As she rinsed off once more, and moved to sit on the edge of the bath -- presumably to shave her legs -- Bill resolved to make a copy of tonight's footage before he deleted it. 

She definitely hadn't seen the camera.


	9. Overthinking Things

It was good to feel clean again.

Margaux wound her wet hair into a loose plait and looked at the towel folded over the radiator. She couldn't put her clothes back on -- they needed washing -- but she hadn't thought to bring her change of clothes in here with her. Was it safe to venture down the hall in nothing but a towel?

It wasn't a very long walk. If she rushed she could be past the sitting room and in her bedroom in under ten seconds.

Why would Bill bother her anyway? It seemed unlikely when she thought about it. Much as it might be redundant to debate the honour of kidnappers, he had known she was in the bath with the door unlocked -- surely if he was the type to do something, he would have done it already?

She was just being paranoid. This situation made her over-think everything. _He_ made her over-think everything. Margaux took the towel and wrapped it around herself, then opened the door into the hallway.

*

"Did you enjoy your bath?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She sat down beside him, pulling at the hem of her trouser leg nervously. He looked at her strangely, but she pretended not to notice.

"I feel ridiculous asking this, but... do you want any clothes washed?"

He looked at her as if he was trying to find some deeper meaning in her question.

"I realise that you're bored, Margaux, but I didn't expect you to start doing the housework."

Her cheeks flushed a faint pink.

"I was going to wash some of mine, that's all."

"How are you planning on doing that?"

She hadn't thought of that.

"...I may have assumed you'd let me use the washing machine."

"It's fine... You're not planning to drink the detergent, are you?"

"I wish you'd stop saying things like that."

"You'll have to excuse me. I can't afford to lose you."

"I suppose..." She drew her legs up and hugged her knees. "I'm not going to do it, though."

"And I believe you. Mostly. Do you want some wine?"

He got up and left without waiting for a response.

Bill seemed to be in a bit of a strange mood. But then all of his moods were strange, at least to her. She had no idea which aspect of him was the real person, and which was the facade. Of course there was always the possibility that it was all him; perhaps he really was as changeable as he seemed. The thought of that was enough to raise goosebumps on her arms.

He returned with just one glass of red wine, which he pressed into her hands.

"Aren't you drinking?"

"Not until Robert gets back." He returned to his seat and started flicking through the channels. "Someone needs to be sober when you make a run for it."

Bill grinned. Margaux frowned.

She held the glass under her nose and inhaled; it smelled good -- spicy and rich -- but she was hesitant to taste it.

"You haven't put anything in this?"

"Margaux, I'm offended." He smirked at her. She didn't feel especially reassured. "Don't you trust me?"

"I can't decide whether you're trying to be funny."

He came across a channel playing Jonathan Creek and put down the remote.

"There's nothing but Chianti in that glass, Margaux. I promise."

She looked down at the purplish-red liquid.

"I suppose it doesn't make much difference, does it? You'd still manage to drug me anyway."

"I'm glad we understand each other. Get comfortable, Margaux, this is a good episode."

*

Margaux was lying in bed when she heard the front door slam, and heavy footsteps paced down the hall.

"Any problems?"

"No. She's an obedient girl. Where did you go in the end?"

"Hull."

"Everything's ready?"

"Yeah. There's a postal strike on Friday, though."

"Another day's wait won't kill us."

"True." Sofa springs creaking. The hiss of a can opening. "Do you think he'll call the police?"

"He knows we'll kill her if he does."

Margaux felt a stab of horror. She had come to terms with the prospect of violence, had even accepted that at the end of all this she still might not come out alive, but it hadn't really occurred to her that they might simply decide to get rid of her at any moment.

"Yeah, but I mean -- most of them call the police anyway."

"Then we'll just have to make sure they take us seriously, won't we?"

There was a long period of silence. Margaux could only assume they were watching TV. She lay perfectly still, part of her convinced that somehow they might figure out she was listening and decide to punish her.

"I'm going to bed."

"Alright. I'll wake you in three hours."

"Make it four."

"...Alright."

She heard Bill padding down the hallway, then the click of a door shutting behind him.

It took her a long time to fall asleep.


	10. Nightmares

"Don't you trust me, Margaux?"

"Not even slightly."

His hand moved up her side. She tried to move away, and he pinned against the wall with the full length of his body.

"That's a shame, Margaux."

Suddenly, the room pitched onto its side and she found herself under him.

"You want to get out of this alive, don't you?"

She nodded hurriedly. He grasped her wrists and held them above her head. The fading paper of the sitting room wall had become the cold flagstones of the kitchen floor.

"But not just alive. It's not enough just to live, is it?"

It was raining indoors. She knew she was dreaming, but she couldn't wake up. _She couldn't wake up_.

"You know what you have to do, don't you Margaux?"

Music was coming from somewhere. Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_. Every chord wrenched at her heart.

"No I don't -- I don't know!"

He held her face in his hands. His eyes were burning through her.

"Just give me what I want."

The rain was falling on her skin. It felt warm and sticky, and as a drop landed on her lips she tasted iron. She looked down at his hands, and they were slick and red with it.

"Give me what I want, and everything will be fine."

He forced his knees between hers and wrenched her legs apart.

"No! Stop it! Please--"

"He's right. Just do what you're told."

Robert was sitting at the kitchen table. She looked at him with pleading eyes.

"Won't you help me? Please?"

"I just work here, love." He laughed. "Besides, it's my turn after."

Bill was pulling at her clothes, and they tore away as easily as tissue paper.

"Please, anything but this -- please! I'll do anything! Stop!"

"Hush, Margaux, hush."

The music was getting louder; suddenly the kitchen table was a piano. Robert was playing it with a hole in his head.

Margaux awoke in a cold sweat for the first time in her life.

Bill was standing in the doorway. Watching.

"You talk in your sleep."

"I'm sorry..." She pulled the blanket tight around her and edged back towards the wall. What had he heard?

"It's fine. I was up anyway." He threw her coat on the desk. "Get dressed. We're going on a walk."

*

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Every time she looked at Bill, Margaux imagined his face slick with blood, inches from her own. She wished that this morning of all mornings he had left her to pass the time on her own. 

As they crossed a cattle grid, he stopped and looked up the path ahead of them.

"I was hoping we could avoid this."

She followed his gaze, and her heart almost stopped. There, on the crest of the hill but moving closer, were two figures, bundled up in heavy coats.

"If you try anything, I'll shoot them both. You don't want that, do you, Margaux?"

"No."

She looked at the two approaching figures, and the springer spaniel that bounded after them, and desperately wished they'd go another way.

He grabbed her hand as they got closer -- close enough to see their smiling faces in the early morning light, _oh God, dear God, they were an elderly couple_ \-- and she tried not to flinch.

" _Smile,_ Margaux."

The dog reached them first, running around them in a rough oval, sniffing at their shoes.

"Good morning!" It was the woman who spoke. She had a soft West Country accent. "We didn't expect to see anyone else so early!"

"Good morning." Bill had adopted a congenial tone. Margaux expected the couple to carry on past where they stood, but as they reached them they slowed and stopped.

"Are you on your holidays?"

_Oh, go away, please go away..._

Margaux didn't dare to try and speak. She was afraid of what might escape her lips before she could stop it.

"Actually, we're on our honeymoon." Bill dropped her hand and put his arm around her, his hand resting possessively on her waist. His lips brushed her temple and she forced a smile.

"Oh, congratulations, dears. How nice." She elbowed her husband. "Aren't they a lovely couple, Charlie?"

"Yes, love, very." Margaux caught the man's eye and he smiled apologetically, as though his wife stopped and talked to strangers often. Margaux's mother was the same, although as far as she knew her mother had never unwittingly wandered into a hostage situation.

"We always come up here for our holidays. It's such a peaceful place."

"Yes, very." Bill was maintaining a polite facade, but his fingers kneading rhythmically at her waist warned Margaux of his growing annoyance. He moved to pet the spaniel as it jumped up and put its paws on Margaux's belly, and the dog growled.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry, he's usually such a good dog -- NO, TIBBS. NO."

"It's fine. These things happen.”

He squeezed Margaux's side hard and she winced.

The man called the dog to heel.

"Have you been down to the pub at the crossroads yet?"

"No, no we haven't."

"Oh you really must, dear. They do such lovely food. Perhaps we could all make an evening of it?"

"Mm -- actually, we were planning on spending our honeymoon alone..."

"Oh, yes? Say no more. I was a young man once." The man -- Charlie, was it? -- laughed and elbowed Bill in the ribs. Bill's lips thinned into a line, as though he were fighting some violent urge, and Margaux felt a sense of mounting dread. "Come on, Lillibet, let's leave these lovebirds to it."

"Oh yes, yes, of course. Sorry to have kept you, dears."

They watched the elderly couple leave. It wasn't until they disappeared behind a hedge that Margaux could breath easily again.

"That was good. Well done." Bill tightened his grip around her waist. "But you could have played along more convincingly, don't you think?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't exactly prepared." She pulled out of his grasp, having had quite enough of him touching her, and started down the path once more. He followed and grabbed her arm.

"I think we've been out long enough. Come on."


	11. Developments

She took off her coat and toed off her boots. Bill watched every movement, leaning against the oven.

"I'm afraid fortune is against you, Margaux. We'll have to stop going out."

"What? Why?" She turned to face him; his face had that unsettling blank expression.

"It's too much of a risk. You can't be expected to resist the temptation to ask someone for help."

"I won't! I promise I won't."

"No, I'm sorry. It's not worth it." He turned to leave, and she grabbed his arm. He looked down at her hand on his sleeve.

"Please don't stop me going out. I… I _really_ need this."

"How much?"

They stared at each other in silence.

"I think you'll want to see this."

They both turned to look at Robert entering the kitchen. He handed Bill the laptop. Bill watched the screen for a few moments before he spoke:

"Well, Margaux, it appears they've finally started looking for you."

He put the computer on the table and turned it towards her. She was looking at a greyscale image of her own driveway. As she watched, a patrol car pulled up and a policeman got out. Bill changed the view to her drawing room, where someone was rifling through a pile of unopened post.

"They sent a patrol 'round while you were out. It seems like they decided it was suspicious pretty fast."

"Won't they find your cameras?"

"Eventually. They’re not looking for them yet.” Bill was watching the figures on the screen with the slightest hint of a grin. The game was on.

"...Can't they trace the video feed back to you?"

"Once again, Margaux, your thoughtful insights are much appreciated, but we have it covered."

"So what happens now?"

"We wait." Bill minimised the window, and Margaux found herself looking at a tiled layout of her house. There was an officer in each of the six rooms, looking through her belongings.

She saw the skinny, dark shape of the cat crossing the kitchen floor, and her heart gave a little leap. She hadn't even been worried about it, but now that she saw him, trying to paw open the bin as always, she felt a surge of relief that he was alright.

But there was another feeling. Watching these strangers moving around her house, looking for signs of her absence, was a reminder of her situation. Out there, the world was still turning. People's lives were affected by this kidnapping besides her own. Who had alerted the police? Was her dad worried? She hadn't even thought about that. Had someone out there been kept awake last night, wondering where she was?

Margaux bit her lip and looked away from the screen.

"They'll worry for a couple of days before David gets the video." Robert flicked the kettle on, and it started its low rumble.

"I... suppose that's good for you."

"Good for you, too. If he’s scared, he’ll pay faster," Robert responded, rattling the cutlery drawer in search of a spoon.

"But it won't make much difference if he doesn't have the money."

"Oh, he has it. Don't worry about that."

She didn't respond.

Bill watched Margaux leave the kitchen and frowned.

*

"What do you know, Margaux?"

She looked up from her book to meet Bill's gaze.

"No more than I've already told you."

"Which is what?"

"That I don't think David is going to pay."

"And why is that?"

"Besides the fact that you're trying to get the money from my _ex-husband_? He has no interest in my personal safety."

"I think you underestimate him, Margaux."

"I think _you_ overestimate him."

"Be that as it may, he's the wealthiest person you know. And, let’s not forget, he’s technically your agent.”

"I suppose I can't deny that."

"But you're still not convinced.”

"Of course not."

He sat down on the bed. Margaux edged away, and he pulled her back, holding her in place with an arm around her shoulders. She swallowed nervously.

"Why, Margaux?"

"David is broke."

The muscles in Bill's jaw tightened, then relaxed.

"How broke?"

"I don't know exactly... but it's bad. He has a lot of gambling debts."

Bill was silent. Thinking. Finally he said, more to himself than her:

"That's fine. He’ll pay anyway. His agency can’t afford to lose you.”

"But I-- I'm just not that important. Not _ten million pounds_ important."

"Now, that just isn't true..." He was twisting his fingers in her hair; when his thumb brushed the back of her neck, she flinched. He brought his mouth close to her ear. Her heart was hammering. "You're their pretty little cash cow, Margaux. They wouldn't want to see you get slaughtered."


	12. A Judgement Call

After her conversation with Bill, Margaux couldn't bring herself to leave the bedroom.

She alternated between trying to read, pacing restlessly back and forth, and sleeping -- refusing the offer of food in the evening.

By five o'clock the following morning, Margaux was hungry. Very hungry. Bill's manner when they had spoken had frightened her. Badly. But she had to accept that she could only keep trying to avoid him for so long. And wasn't he usually asleep at this point in the day anyway? She took her cardigan -- still ever so slightly damp in the sleeves -- from the radiator and pulled it on. She smoothed the front of her skirt compulsively before she opened the door and ventured out into the hall.

The TV was on, and for a second she felt the rise of dread in her belly, until she realised that it was a sports programme; she had come to learn that if there was sports on the television, it was always Robert who was watching it. She padded past the sitting room door, down to the kitchen. The flagstones were uncomfortably cold under her bare feet, but she wasn't about to go past the door again to get her socks.

There were eggs in the fridge -- naturally, how else had Bill made pancake batter? There were also onions, but not a lot else. An omelette sounded like an appealing prospect. Her belly growled as if in agreement. She wasn't entirely certain that it was alright for her to be using the hob, but she couldn't imagine that Robert was going to be concerned enough to get up and stop her -- not at this time in the morning, at least.

Margaux put the egg carton and a red onion on the counter and opened the cupboard near the oven, crouching to look for a frying pan.

As she began to heat the oil, she heard footsteps approaching the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

At the sound of Robert's voice, she released a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding.

"I'm making breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"...Yeah, go on then."

She set about breaking eggs, and he walked closer. It was easy to take his size for granted when he was across the room, but as he stood behind her she felt as though she'd been shrunk.

"You're lucky."

Margaux suppressed a snort of contempt and opened the drawer. "Why is that?" She looked at the onion on the counter, then down at the space in the cutlery drawer where the kitchen knives should have been. She'd forgotten. She frowned and took out a butter knife. How was she meant to chop with this?

"Having so much freedom. Anyone else would have you tied up in the back room."

"I suppose so." She began to saw the onion awkwardly in half. This was going to take forever.

Margaux waited for him to continue, but Robert was silent, as though he had decided at the last moment not to follow that particular train of thought. She couldn't decide whether that was a good thing -- where had he been going with the conversation?

Fifteen minutes later, Margaux tipped a neatly-folded omelette onto a plate and set it on the table. She hoped the onions made a significant difference to the food, because the chopping had been far more trouble than it was worth.

Robert sat down, the spindly wooden chair creaking under his muscular bulk.

"Your book was interesting."

"Which one?"

"The weird one," he responded through a mouthful of egg. "This is good."

"Thanks."

She wasn't really sure which book he meant. They were all 'weird' in some way, she supposed. She browned her half of the onions, pushing them around in patterns with the wooden spoon.

"What do you need ten million pounds for?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"I was just wondering. Do you need it for something specific?"

"That's really none of your business."

"Well... it sort of is. It's my life being traded for it, isn't it?"

"You make a persuasive argument, but I'm still not going to tell you."

"Alright." She frowned, tipping the eggs over the onions. "I was just curious."

"You know what they say about curiosity, don't you?"

"That it spawned a thousand tired clichés?"

"Cute." She heard the clink of him putting down his fork. 

_That was quick._

His chair scraped back across the stone and his hand moved into her field of vision as he put his empty plate on the counter. 

"You're getting far too comfortable, Margaux. You want the fear putting back into you."

"And I suppose you're the one to do it, are you?"

She didn't know what possessed her to bait him. Maybe she was losing it. That happened sometimes in these situations, didn't it?

He gripped the back of her neck with one massive paw. Margaux froze.

"If that ever happens, love, you'll know about it. Don't tempt me."

*

After breakfast, Robert pulled on his coat and told her they were going out.

"But... won't Bill be getting up soon?"

"Not for another two hours."

"He said I couldn't go out any more. I don’t want to upset him.”

"Nah, see -- he said you'd have to stop going out, 'you' in a collective sense. Now I'm the one watching you, and I say we're going out."

“I really don’t think…” She was silent for a moment. Right or wrong, she wasn't in a position to refuse. She hoped Bill would consider that. "...Okay. Fine.”

Margaux couldn't help but feel that she was caught in the middle of some kind of power struggle. What kind of statement was Robert trying to make, walking off with her alone? Had the two men had some disagreement while she slept? She followed him out the door, feeling for all the world as though she were embarking upon a walk to the gallows.

*

The walk was uneventful. Robert soon got bored of what he called the 'repetitive scenery', and took her back.

Margaux opened the kitchen door, and her eyes immediately met Bill's cold glare. He was sitting at the kitchen table in a partially-buttoned shirt. Waiting.

"Where were you, Margaux?"

She opened her mouth to respond, and her throat felt dry and tight. "...Robert took me out."

"Didn't I say, Margaux, that you were no longer allowed outside? Isn't that what I said to you?"

"Y-yes, yes you did--"

He got up and walked towards her. She backed away, and collided with the doorframe.

"Did you think what might happen if you ran into our _elderly_ _friends_? How were you going to explain who Robert was?"

He struck the wall to the right of her head, and she whimpered.

"I didn't want to. I said no."

"Is that true?" He looked at Robert, who had walked into the house after Margaux with a casual air, as though feet away a woman wasn't being pinned to the wall.

"She needed to be kept occupied. I made a judgement call."

Bill exhaled sharply through his nose. Seeing the look in his eyes, Margaux felt certain her legs would give out beneath her. He sighed and rested his forehead against hers, bringing his hand up to her face. He addressed Robert without looking at him. "The next time there's a judgement to be made, Robert," he began, his fingers trailing along Margaux's jaw, "see that it's deferred to someone who knows _what they're fucking doing_. Are we clear?" 

Robert grunted a sullen response.

"And as for you --" Bill stood upright, and grabbed a handful of Margaux's hair. "You're coming with me."

He marched her down the hall, and shoved her into the end bedroom -- as he released his grip, she fell, and crumpled awkwardly on the carpet. Bill followed her in, and pulled the door shut behind him.


	13. Tête-à-Tête

"We need to have a little talk, Margaux."

She scrambled into a seated position and moved back until she was sitting against the furthest wall. In this room, that still wasn't very far away.

"I'm sorry, I--I--"

"I may not be a nice man, but I am a reasonable one. This morning wasn't entirely your fault." He sat down on the edge of the bed and clasped his hands. "But since Robert has decided that he's an authority unto himself, I need to be certain you understand the situation." He looked at her, then pointed at a spot on the floor next to his right foot. "Come here." She moved onto her knees to stand, and he shook his head. "No, Margaux. Crawl."

Margaux regarded the man with uncertainty.

"I'm not a patient man. Get a move on."

After a moment, she leaned forward, placing her hands flat on the thin carpet, and started to crawl. The distance between them was only short, but she didn't dare to take her eyes from him for even a second. He held her gaze, his mouth turning up at the corner.

"Good. Sit down."

She did, and he placed his hand on her shoulder, giving her a gentle push so that her head rested against his knee. Margaux clasped her hands in her lap and tried not to think about it.

He stroked her hair absently, setting her heart pounding. "Who do you think is in charge here?"

"...You."

"So when you receive two contrasting orders, whose do you listen to?"

"I thought he'd hurt me, i-if I said no." This wasn't like her; making excuses, weeping like a frightened child, obsessing over the potential consequences of everything she did. She hated the person she was being forced to become.

"Oh, Margaux." His fingers wound through her hair, and her scalp prickled. "Whatever he threatens you with is nothing, compared to what I'll do to you if you disobey me again." His hand moved down, and he brushed his thumb across her cheek. "Understand?" She nodded. It was a threat she could believe -- Robert was capable of raw violence, she was sure, but Bill was the type that got creative. "Good." He patted her cheek, and she flinched. "As for going outside..."

Margaux tried to respond, and found that she couldn't. She felt as though she might faint. Somehow this strange affection was worse than the violence.

"You want to keep going out, don't you?"

She nodded mutely.

"You understand that it's a risk?" She gave a forlorn nod. "But perhaps we can make it work." She looked up at him. "If you behave. If you do as you're told. Can you do that?"

"Yes." Her voice sounded hoarse and shaky.

"You're sure?"

Margaux nodded emphatically.

"Good." He stood abruptly, and his knee bumped her jaw. "Then everything will work out just fine." He went to the door and opened it. Margaux moved to stand. Bill looked back into the room. "Don't disappoint me, Margaux." His gaze bore into her, and she froze under its intensity.

"I won't."

He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

*

She had to make amends somehow. That much Margaux knew. 

Something in Bill's manner had changed for the worst -- she was seeing a dangerous side of him, one that might decide to do anything on the slightest whim. Somehow she had to dissipate the anger that was bubbling beneath the surface. But then, what exactly could she do? She had few resources available, to say the least. What could she do except demonstrate her ability to 'behave'?

Her imagination reeled with the possibilities of what he might expect of her, and she could barely suppress a shudder.

No, she couldn't have that attitude.

She had to show fortitude in the face of adversity -- whatever he wanted, it was a small price to pay for her continued survival.

She would have to pander to his desire for control, put him at ease, and maybe... maybe if she could convince him of her obedience, she might get another chance to escape.

*

Margaux stood in the doorway and cleared her throat. Bill looked up from the magazine in his lap with an irritable expression. Where had he found that?

"Peace offering?" She stepped into the room, holding out a mug of tea. He looked at her with mild surprise. _Start small_ , that was the plan.

"Thanks." Bill took the cup, and Margaux sat down. She wondered briefly whether she should have asked permission, but it was a bit late to worry about that now that she’d done it.

Where was Robert? She hadn't seen him in the kitchen, nor heard him around the cottage. His was probably not a good name to bring up at this precise moment, however, so she didn't ask. She was certain to run into him sooner or later, whether she wanted to or not.

Bill raised the cup to his lips, then stopped, staring at her. She looked back, waiting for him to speak.

"I want to see you drink this first," he said at last, placing the mug on the seat between them.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

She picked up the cup. "It's too hot to drink."

"Margaux..." His tone was dangerously close to a growl.

"Alright. Christ."

She took a sip of the scalding liquid and winced. He stared at her for a few moments more, then took the mug from her shaking hands and placed it on the side table.

"Thank you."

"I wouldn't try to poison you," she muttered sullenly, rubbing her burnt tongue on the roof of her mouth. Margaux drew her legs up in front of her and rested her chin on her knee.

"You have a strong motivation for doing so, wouldn't you agree?"

She frowned.

"Even if I killed you, I'd still have Robert to deal with."

His jaw muscles tightened, and she realised too late what she'd said. They stared at each other.

"Yes, well, I'll grant you that." He sat back with his knees wide -- that typically male posture of casual dominance -- and rested his hands on his thighs.

"You've been... very kind so far." That statement felt a little too much like insincere toadying, but he seemed to accept it.

"Kinder than you have any right to expect, I'm sure you agree."

"I-I do."

"Then come here." He laid his arm across the back of the sofa and curled his fingers in a beckoning gesture. She looked at him reproachfully. "Come on." She shook her head, averse to the prospect of such close proximity, even as she recalled her previous resolve to do as she was told. "Margaux, this is a test, and you're failing it."

She bit her lip. He was right, of course. It wasn't much good making promises she wouldn't keep. She moved a negligible distance closer.

"Margaux, I'm going to give you ten seconds to rethink that decision."

She shifted closer, until she could feel his body heat, and hugged herself defensively. He dropped his arm across her shoulders.

"Isn't that better?"

Margaux didn't respond.


	14. Negotiation

Bill was humming.

He was humming softly to himself as he turned his attention back to the magazine, winding a lock of Margaux's hair around his fingers.

What was that tune? She knew it from somewhere. It was a trite nineteen-sixties tune, probably a love song, the sort of thing you heard once in a while, but that was seldom played on the radio.

Maybe this was an opportunity to make some kind of connection -- have a real, normal conversation. She couldn't help but wonder what sort of person Bill was in a normal context. She couldn't imagine him at a dinner party, or going to see a film. Did he have friends? He must have.

If only she could remember the name of that song. Where had she heard it?

The tune made her think of her nana's sitting room -- a little box of a room with a gas fire -- and an old cassette player. 

_I've a pretty señorita waiting for me, down in old Mexico..._

_Ooh, I'm a travellin' man..._

She could picture the singer's face on the faded dust jacket.

"...Do you -- do you like Ricky Nelson?"

"Hm?"

"You were humming a Ricky Nelson song."

"Oh. No, it was on an ad last night. Can't get it out of my head."

Margaux frowned.

"Oh..." No. No, don't squander the opportunity. _Get the ball rolling, Margaux._ "What _do_ you like?"

He turned his head and looked down at her. His chin was only level with her forehead, but she still felt as though his face was too close to her own.

"What are you hoping to gain from asking me questions, Margaux?" He was twisting her hair in slow spirals. The prickles began in her scalp and danced down her spine, and made her stomach turn.

"I just want to talk. I haven't had a conversation in days."

"We've had plenty of conversations."

"I want to have a _normal_ conversation. Can't you humour me?"

He smirked. "If that's what you'd like, Margaux."

"Thank you."

Bill picked up his mug of tea and took a drink with deliberate slowness, looking at her over the rim of the cup. "Have you started dating yet?"

"...What?"

"Since your divorce. Have you seen anyone else?"

"Why are we talking about this?"

"You said you wanted to have a normal conversation. This is what I want to talk about."

"Hm."

"Answer the question, Margaux. You have to meet me halfway."

Margaux sighed. At least they were talking.

"No. I haven't."

"Not Dylan Murphy?"

"How did you know about him?"

"I know everything about you, Margaux." His hand moved around the back of her neck and his fingers curled around her throat. She swallowed nervously. "You should know better than to lie to me."

"I don't want to talk about him."

"Tough. Tell me what happened."

"If you know everything already, why do I have to tell you?"

" _Margaux..."_

"Alright. Christ. You win, as usual."

"Good. Now tell me about Dylan.”

"We were on the same course at university, and after my book was optioned I recommended him for the soundtrack."

"And you started dating how?"

"We didn't. He turned up drunk at my hotel one night, and we had sex. That's all."

"Only the once?"

"...No. We saw each other regularly for a couple of months."

"Then you were dating."

"It was just sex."

He laughed. "You'd never know to look at you." The hand moved from its threatening position at her throat, skimming down her side to rest on her thigh. Margaux went to move away, and he pulled her back with an arm around her waist.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that you don't seem like that kind of woman. Not much in-keeping with that good girl image you have going, is it?”

There was a sudden burst of noise in the kitchen, and they both turned towards the sound. It had been so long since she'd heard a sound like that -- for a moment Margaux didn't register that it was the sound of a phone ringing. Bill got up and left the room. After a few seconds, a door creaked, and Robert appeared in the hallway. He also headed for the kitchen.

"David -- so good to hear from you at last. How are you?" She could just make out Bill's superficially charming tone over the sound of Robert's boots on the tiles. "Now David, there's no need for language like that." 

He was heading this way with the phone. Suddenly Margaux couldn't breathe. The moment had finally arrived -- the moment which would kick off a chain of events, for better or worse -- and she was completely unprepared for it.

"Yes, Margaux's here." He appeared in the doorway, resting a hand on the frame as his eyes met hers. "Yes, you can. If you apologise." His lips twisted into a slightly manic grin, and Margaux's eyes widened. “For that slight against my mother, David. You've upset me. I'm a sensitive man... No, not until you apologise, I'm afraid…” Bill held Margaux’s gaze and grinned again. She felt sick. “Now, you see, that's better. Not so hard, was it?" 

He moved into the room and stood over her, looking down at her terrified expression, then sat down at her side and placed the phone on the table.

"Margaux, it's for you." 

He pressed the speaker key, and immediately she heard David's voice -- albeit more panicked than the last time they had spoken.

"Oh Jesus -- Margaux? Margaux, can you hear me? I'm sorry --"

"I'm here, David. I can hear you."

"I'm sorry, baby, I didn't know--"

"Apologise on your own time, David. Ours is valuable."

"Don't you hurt her! Don't you dare hurt her--"

"If you want to save your wife, David, it's very simple. Just give us our money."

Bill's hand rested on the back of her neck, and Margaux felt not the abstract dread of before, but true, mind-altering terror. David's undiplomatic approach had made Bill angry, and he was ready to let some of that anger out -- she was certain of it.

"But I can't!"

"Of course you can. It's as simple as pushing a few keys."

"It's not! I can't just--"

"David. David, David, David. You're approaching this all wrong. Anyone would think you wanted poor little Margaux to get hurt."

He squeezed her shoulder hard, and she yelped.

"Please! Please, let me explain! I can't get hold of anyone -- none of the other people you mentioned in your note."

"Poor David, all alone. Isn't that terrible, Margaux? Aw, she's practically weeping for you, David. Your wife’s torn up.”

"Ex! Ex, god damn it! Why couldn't you have contacted someone else? Anyone else?"

"Why, because you're a prime candidate, David. We couldn't have asked for a better one."

"I..." It sounded as though he was trying to collect himself. Was that a whisper at his end of the line? Unfortunately, Bill seemed to have heard it, too.

"David, is someone else there with you?"

"No. No, of course not--"

"Because if the police were to get involved, David, I've already explained to you what would happen... You understand that, don't you?"

"I would never -- I, um--"

"Oh, David, I don't believe you're taking me seriously. Perhaps you need to be reminded of what's at stake."

He leaned back a little and began to unbuckle his belt. Margaux edged away, and tried not to look as though she was judging the distance to the door.

"Please, be reasonable --"

"You need to learn who is in charge here, David." He pulled the strip of leather free of his belt loops and folded it in half. “Unfortunately, Margaux is going to have to learn that lesson for you.”

Margaux bolted for the door, but she barely made half the distance before he was on her, tackling her to the carpet. David was yelling -- she couldn't make out the words.

"Now, where did you think you were going to go, Margaux?" He pinned her on her front, his whole weight on top of her. His breath tickled her ear, and he murmured: "For running from me, I'll make sure it hurts twice as much."

He hauled her to her feet.

"Robert, hold her."

The giant of a man, who had entered during their brief scuffle, grasped her wrists and held them above her head. It felt like being suspended from the ceiling.

There was a moment of silence, as though the world stopped turning in anticipation of that first blow.

The strap cracked across Margaux's thighs, and as the surface of her skin erupted in white hot agony, she screamed. He struck again -- higher -- before the pain had time to dissipate. As she writhed in Robert's grip, the turning motion of her body only provided more fresh targets upon which to strike, and each scream that tore from her throat only served Bill's purpose.

"Stop it! Stop it, please! I'll do anything you want, but I don't have that kind of money!"

"Then you have a big fucking problem, David."

Robert released his grip on her wrists, and Margaux's legs crumpled beneath her.

"See that you have something better to tell me tomorrow, David, or you'll start seeing parts of Margaux sooner than you'd like." Bill flexed the belt in his hands and looked down at his handiwork.

"Alright! Alright! I'll..." Was he... was he crying? "I'll talk to them. I'll get the money."

"Good man." 

Bill took a step towards Margaux, and she drew her knees up to her chest, trembling. He threw the belt at her feet, and she flinched. 

"Clean yourself up, Margaux, you're a mess."


	15. Tut mir nicht Leid

The water had gone cold an hour ago.

Margaux stared up at the ceiling. Even the bathroom hadn’t escaped the off-white textured paper treatment, it seemed. She couldn’t hear any activity elsewhere in the cottage — Margaux wasn’t sure whether that was because there was nothing to hear, or because the bathroom door offered some semblance of soundproofing.

She was starting to shiver, but she didn’t want to get out. Deep red welts had broken out across her skin, and they burned. _God_ they burned.

She’d been stupid. She had grown accustomed to the fear, and she’d forgotten what was hidden beneath the personable facade both her captors presented. She’d forgotten that whether she did what she was told or not didn’t matter when it came to sending a message.

Footsteps outside the door. Margaux drew her legs up and folded her arms over her chest. The door swung open without so much as a knock, and Robert walked in. For a moment he just stood, looking down at her.

“W-what is it?”

“Sorry to barge in on you, love, but I need a piss.”

Margaux wrinkled her nose.

“Oh.”

Robert smirked and shut the door behind him, unzipping his jeans. Margaux pointedly directed her attention at the tiled wall, and he laughed.

“You’d think you’d never seen a cock before.”

Margaux didn’t respond. She was trying to block out what sounded like a racehorse urinating.

“I s’pose you’re cross with me. I just do what I’m told, love.”

“I’m not angry with either of you.”

“That so?” He flushed the toilet and walked to the side of the bath. Margaux hugged herself tighter, and didn’t look up at him. “Those look painful. You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Any broken skin?” He knelt down, and Margaux flinched away. Robert tested the water with his fingertips. “This water’s freezing. You’ll catch cold.”

Margaux was silent. He slid his hand beneath the surface of the water and gripped Margaux’s ankle before she could pull it away.

“Don’t struggle. You’ll splash water all over the place.”

“Don’t touch me. Please.”

“You don’t object so much when Bill does it.”

“He doesn’t try to touch me when I’m naked.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine. Please leave me alone.”

They stared at each other, neither of them moving. The only sound was the drip of the tap. Finally, Robert withdrew his hand and stood up, wiping the water off on his jeans.

“I’ll leave a tube of Savlon on your bed. Make sure you put it on any open wounds. If anything gets infected, we can’t take you to a doctor.”

He opened the door and left, slamming it behind him. Margaux pulled the plug, reaching for the towel on the radiator. She wanted to get out of the bathroom before anyone else decided to invite themselves in.

*

There was no broken skin — she thought it would probably have to have been bare for that to happen — but Margaux used the antiseptic cream anyway. In a few minutes, the stinging across both her thighs was replaced by a comfortable numbness. She was sitting on the bed, waiting for the greasy lotion to absorb, when someone knocked on the door.

“Give me two seconds!”

She scrabbled to pull on her jeans. The door opened as she was buttoning the top of the fly, and she instinctively turned away, though she was essentially dressed.

“We’re going out.”

There was something strange in Bill’s voice. When she turned to face him, he was frowning.

“But I—”

“I wasn’t asking. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

*

Margaux walked up the hill in silence. Bill hadn’t spoken since they left, and she’d be damned if she was going to talk to him first. She pulled her coat tight around herself and looked down at the rough slabs that made up the stairs of the footpath.

They had passed over the crest of the hill and started down into the tree-lined valley before Bill said anything.

“You were in the bath for a while. Is everything alright?”

“Just spiffing, thanks.”

“I don’t appreciate that tone, Margaux.”

“Then you’ll have to excuse me.”

He grabbed her arm, and she struggled out of his grip before she could process what she was doing. He caught her again, forcing her to turn and look up at him. It felt as though her arm was in a vice.

“ _Don’t_ defy me. I’ve been kind to you so far—”

“If this is kindness, I would really _hate_ to see cruelty.”

“You’re going to be seeing it a lot sooner if you keep this up, Margaux. Do I need to remind you who’s in charge here?”

His fingers dug into her flesh, and she couldn’t suppress a whimper.

“Do I, Margaux?”

“No.”

“What was that?” He shook her sharply.

“ _No!”_

“…Good.”

Bill relaxed his grip, and Margaux turned to bat a tear from her cheek.

“You seem to have forgotten what we talked about earlier. You promised to behave.”

“Yes, well… you forgot first.”

Bill was silent.

“This morning doesn’t count. That was necessary.”

“Well, what else doesn’t count? What will be ‘necessary’ next? What exactly is my motivation for doing as you ask?”

“I’m sorry I had to hurt you, Margaux, but you have to be seen to be in danger if David is going to take us seriously.”

“…You didn’t have to make it so humiliating. That wouldn’t make any difference to him.”

“How did I humiliate you?”

“Throwing your belt at me. Telling me to go clean myself up, as though you’d just _fucked_ me.”

“For all he knows, that’s already happened.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

They reached a brook running down the hill, toward the river that snaked along the valley floor, and Margaux stepped across it. Bill followed. They passed one tree, then another, until the foliage thickened into a copse.

“It bothers you. The idea of David thinking you’ve been raped.”

“Of _course_ it does!”

“…Why?”

Margaux stopped and turned to face him. “You really don’t know?”

“Humour me.”

She was quiet for a moment. Suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to meet Bill’s eyes, and dropped her gaze to the thick leaf litter.

“No one who knew would ever look at me the same way again.”

“…Then I’m sorry.”

“Yes. Well.” She turned and set off walking again. “Why are we out here, anyway? If you just wanted to talk, it’s not as though I can avoid you.”

“I need to talk to you about Robert.”

“Oh. What about him?”

“He went into the bathroom while you were in there. Why?”

“To use the loo.”

“There’s a water closet en-suite to one of the bedrooms. That’s not why he was in there. What happened?”

“This en-suite is news to me.”

“Don’t change the subject, Margaux.”

“I’m just saying, that loo might have been useful when you were in the bath and I was getting desperate.”

“You could have come in.”

_“I was not going to urinate in front of you.”_

“You’ve led me off on a tangent, Margaux. I asked you about Robert.”

“Christ! He wanted to look at the belt-marks. That’s all.”

“He didn’t touch you?”

“Well… yes… but not like _that_.”

“Like what?”

“Like the way you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting anything.”

“Yes you are. What do you think happened?”

“I was asking you.”

“And _I told you_ , absolutely nothing happened.”

“He didn’t make you feel uncomfortable? You didn’t ask him to leave?”

“…Jesus, if you know everything, why do you always make me tell you?”

“To see whether you’ll tell me the truth. You didn’t. Why?”

“I don’t know!”

“Are you trying to protect him, Margaux?”

“No! I felt stupid, alright? I felt stupid for getting worked up. I realised afterwards that he was just trying to help.”

“You’re certain of that?”

Margaux stopped.

“…What exactly is your problem?”

“ _Margaux,_ that tone is creeping in again.”

“Aren’t you two on the same team? What benefit is there in defaming his character to me?”

He stepped towards her and she backed away, until a broad oak trunk blocked her retreat. “I don’t need to _defame_ anyone, Margaux.” He moved in close, pinning her against the tree with a hand on each shoulder. “But I think you need to realise that I am not the only bad man here.”

Margaux looked up at Bill. Bill looked down at Margaux. Somewhere in the distance, a sheep bleated, and another answered.

“Are you really going to cut me up?” The question came out in a quivering whisper. Bill’s grip on her shoulders relaxed, and the look that passed over his features was almost sympathetic. Almost.

“That’s entirely up to your husband.”

“If he doesn’t agree by tomorrow?” Her heart was hammering. Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. There was no hint in Bill’s eyes that the prospect of mutilating her caused him any level of discomfort. He absolutely would go through with it.

“That’s plenty of time to secure an agreement.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

He brought a hand up to her face, and she instinctively flinched. Bill frowned. “I don’t want to hurt you, Margaux.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “David won’t let anything happen. Your friends would never forgive him. He’ll get the money together soon, and then this whole sorry business will be over. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You just keep doing what you’re told, and don’t cause any trouble. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good.” Bill’s gaze moved down and lingered on her mouth. Margaux looked away. “Right. Home, then.” 

He took her hand and started to lead her back up the hill.


	16. A Fragile Thing

As they reached the top and stopped, looking out across the hills, it began to rain. Not the slow patter building into a heavier shower that Margaux was used to — the heavens opened, and in minutes she was soaked through.

“I’m getting pretty tired of this weather,” she muttered, addressing no one in particular.

They started down the steps, now slick with rivulets of water.

“It shouldn’t last for long.”

“I hope not.”

Margaux’s foot slipped on a loose patch of moss, and she just had time to swear before she was sitting on the saturated ground, aching from her knee to her hip. Bill, walking a step behind as always, stood over her.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. My bum was already soaking wet, anyway.”

Bill smirked and extended a hand. Margaux took it and started to get up.

“ _Ah_!”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I’ve just banged my ankle.” She took a step and hissed.

“Sit down a minute. I think you’ve sprained it.”

“But it’s _pissing it down_ , can’t we worry about this back at the house?”

“Never mind that. _Sit down_.”

He gave her a sharp look, and she knew better than to argue. Margaux returned to her seat on the cold, wet stone. Bill moved down a step from her and sat sideways.

“Your trousers will get wet.”

“As you said, Margaux, we’re already soaking. Give me your foot.”

She extended the offending limb, and he placed her foot in his lap. Bill pulled off her boot, then rolled down her sock — the wool was heavy, and clung to her skin. 

“Does that hurt?” He circled his fingers around her ankle and squeezed. She nodded. “How about this?” He pressed his thumb hard just beneath her ankle bone.

“ _ARGH!_ Yes, it hurts, you maniac!”

Bill raised an eyebrow, but let the comment pass. Margaux tried to pull her foot out of his lap, and he grasped her calf tightly. She held still. Bill pulled off her sock and stuck it inside the boot he’d removed. Margaux was slightly concerned by how much water was collecting inside it, but said nothing. “You’re not badly injured, but you should stay off this foot for at least the rest of the day.”

“But we’re still ten minutes away from the house…”

“Let me worry about that.” His fingers trailed over her painted toenails, and she jerked involuntarily. “ _Margaux_ …”

“I didn’t mean to!… It tickles.” She averted her gaze, embarrassed, and he laughed. When she looked back at him, she noticed that his blond hair was plastered down over his forehead.

Bill let her go and stood, picking up her boot. Margaux followed suit, trying not to let her bare foot touch the ground.

“I’m going to need to pick you up.”

“…Do you have to? Can’t I just—”

“Margaux, I’m only telling you out of courtesy. It’s not a request.”

“Okay…” She watched him with trepidation as he leaned down. He hooked an arm around her leg and lifted her over his shoulder. Suddenly she felt as though she were far too high up. “Please don’t drop me.”

“Hold still, or I will.”

Every step down was nerve-racking. It only took Bill a few moments to descend the remaining ten or so steps, but it felt far, far longer. When they reached the bottom, Margaux felt as though she had survived a run through a mine field.

He set her down on the path, and Margaux did her best to ignore the hand that lingered a little too long on her thigh.

*

When they got back, Robert was standing at the counter, making coffee.

“What happened to you?”

Margaux shrugged, limping her way to a chair. “It just isn’t my day.”

“Margaux had a little accident.” Robert looked at Bill. “An actual accident. She’s not to walk around today.”

“Noted.”

“Any calls?”

“No calls.”

Bill looked at Margaux. She was trying to pull off her remaining boot. He reached down, grasped the heel and pulled it off for her. 

“Thank you.”

“Put some dry clothes on.”

He dropped the boot on the flagstones and left, pulling off his coat as he went. A door in the hallway slammed. The human side of him was regressing again, and Margaux felt a strange sense of loss.

“Want some tea?”

She looked up at Robert. He was shaking an empty mug at her.

“Sure. Thanks. I’ll go and change, I guess.”

“Wait. I’ll take you.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“Bill said you shouldn’t walk, so you’re not going to.”

Margaux sighed. “Fine.”

She stood, and Robert scooped her off her feet.

“To your room, milady?”

“I am really not comfortable with this.” 

Robert started across the kitchen floor, and she hoped he wouldn’t bash her legs against anything.

“Tough luck.”

He turned sideways to carry her down the narrow hallway. A few moments later, he was setting her down.

“I think I could have walked that twenty feet by myself.”

“Well you’re here now. Yell when you’re done.”

Margaux opened the door and limped to the bed. “…Sure.”

She closed the door and listened to his footsteps moving back towards the kitchen. She didn’t begin to undress until she heard his boots tapping across the flags.


	17. Ammtsmissbrauch

Margaux closed the door quietly behind her and half-hopped down the hall. Bill had been right, of course, she couldn’t walk on this — but she didn’t need to be _carried_ everywhere, for god’s sake.

She had reached the kitchen door before Robert noticed her.

“What did I say??”

“I’m okay. Really. I just need to keep the weight off it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t blame me when it still hurts tomorrow.”

“I assure you, that’s going to be the last thing on my mind.”

“Hm. Here’s your tea.”

“Thanks.” She took the chipped white mug from his outstretched paw and started to turn back towards the sitting room. “Where’s Bill?”

“He went out for supplies.”

“…Oh.”

“Something wrong?”

“No. I, um, I just thought you had fixed roles, or something.” _That, and I’m not crazy about being here alone with you._

“We usually do. I suppose he wanted to get something specific.”

“I guess so.”

“D’you want me to take that?”

“Hm?” He was looking down at the mug in her hands. “Oh. No. I’m okay.”

“Suit yourself.”

He skirted around her and went into the sitting room. When she eventually got there — moving slowly, in an effort not to spill her tea — Robert was sitting in Bill’s usual spot.

“The match is on. Hope you don’t mind football.”

Margaux shrugged and made a beeline for the armchair. “It’s okay. I’ve got a book.”

He was silent for a moment, watching her find a comfortable position on the chair.

“…Don’t you want to sit over here?”

 _Not really_. “I just wanted some space… For my ankle.”

“What if I insist?”

“…Why would you do that?”

“Because when Bill asks you to do something, you do it.”

She couldn’t really argue with that logic. She certainly couldn’t afford to make him angry.

“Alright.”

“Great.”

He made a show of moving over a negligible amount, and she crossed the room, sitting down on the furthest end of the sofa.

“You can put your foot here.” He gestured to his lap.

“I’m alright, thanks.”

“Margaux. I insist.”

She suppressed a frown and gingerly brought her leg up onto the sofa. He took hold of her knee and heel and manoeuvred her calf into position across his thigh.

“Comfy?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Fantastic.”

Robert flicked on the TV, and Margaux directed her attention to the musty pages of the single trashy novel she’d been able to find.

“Do you like those slushy romances?”

“Not particularly. But there aren’t any other books here.”

“Huh.”

He seemed satisfied enough with that response, and focused on the TV. 

*

His hand rested on her instep.

She ignored it.

It started to move upwards.

His fingers moved back at first, tracing the narrow bridge of her Achilles’ tendon before they moved up to follow the curve of her calf.

“Please don’t do that,” she asked without looking up from her book, hoping that her calm demeanour would prevent an unpleasant response.

“Do what, love?”

“Please don’t touch me.”

“Why not?” She put her book down on the arm of the sofa and shifted back, pulling her leg away so that his hand moved back down to her foot. He pulled it back.

“Please—”

“ _Why not?_ ”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Don’t you like me?”

“…That isn’t a fair question.”

“It’s not my job to be fair. Do you, or don’t you?”

“I…” He had reached her knee. “No! No I don’t.”

“At least you’re honest.” His hand retreated a little, and for a moment she was relieved. 

“It’s… it’s not personal… I just don’t want to be here.”

“Well, that’s good to know.”

The hand moved back up, Robert’s fingertips stroking the sensitive flesh behind her knee.

“Stop it.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t care.”

He shifted, turning his upper body towards her. “I won’t even fuck you. Just touch you. Let me touch you, Margaux.”

“No!”

“Well, I asked nicely.”

In one movement, he was pinning her to the sofa, his hand moving up her inner thigh.

“Please don’t do this. When Bill finds out—”

He stopped, looking down at her.

“What makes you think Bill gives a shit about what happens to you?”

Margaux bit her lip.

“…I—I never said that.”

“That’s definitely what it sounded like to me. You know what I think?” He moved in closer. Margaux turned her face away. “I think you’re sweet on Bill. I think you’re just torn up that he hasn’t made a move on you.”

“That’s insane.”

He laughed. The sound frightened her.

“Maybe, maybe not. Do you know what, love? I’ll leave it for now. You’ll come ‘round eventually.” He sat back up and took his hands off her. Margaux sat up as quickly as the pain would allow, pulling her skirt back down over her thighs. She moved to stand and leave the room, but he grabbed her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere. Sit there and drink your tea.” When she didn’t sit immediately, he pulled her down roughly. “I can beat the shit out of you if I need to, Margaux. Don’t make me do it.”

Margaux sat in silence, holding her mug in trembling hands. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she would have given anything for Bill to come back at that precise moment.


	18. Compromise

He always made the tea too sweet. Even if it hadn’t been, she still would have felt sick. She couldn’t shake the crawling feeling on her skin, as though his hands were still on her. She couldn’t avoid inhaling his smell of sweat and cigarettes.

She’d made him angry. He was focused intently on the television, absorbed in the machinations of a game she didn’t much care to understand, but now and then an expression would flash across his features — just for a moment — and the fist that rested on his knee would clench a little. She should have been receptive, Margaux reflected. It would have been unpleasant, humiliating, but at least it would have been over relatively quickly. Too late now. Too late.

She could always apologise, of course. She could always…

But as she looked at him she knew she could never bring herself to do it. Doing what she was told was one thing… initiating something willingly was another.

She picked up her book, stared down at the lines on the page without reading them, and listened for the sound of a car engine.

*

When the match ended, Robert started flicking through the channels. She could only assume that it was in search of more sports programming.

“I know you’re not reading that book. You haven’t turned the page in twenty minutes.”

Margaux didn’t answer for a moment, searching for a neutral response.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Just… thinking.”

“I’ll bet I can guess what about.”

“Must you?”

“Yes, I rather think I must,” he replied, mocking her accent. Margaux frowned. “I’ll bet,” he began in a leisurely tone, “you were thinking about…”

She was bracing herself for any number of obvious guesses: she was thinking about rescue; thinking about revenge; thinking about what might have happened if she hadn’t come home that night. Instead he settled in his seat, glanced casually down at his fingernails and said:

“I’ll bet you were thinking about how to get around me.”

Margaux was silent. Trying to keep any kind of expression from her features.

“You were thinking, _how am I going to get out of giving Bobby what he wants?_ Well, I’ll save you some planning, love, and tell you you’re not going to.”

Margaux didn’t like to admit to herself that she had judged the man on his outward appearance alone, but it seemed she had. She has mistaken Robert for the basest kind of thug, she realised, when in reality he was something more. Something worse.

“There’s no need for that face, Margaux. It’s not all bad. You give me something I want, I’ll give you something _you_ want.”

“What… I want?”

This was all sounding very familiar. Margaux was beginning to wonder whether this wasn’t their standard _M.O_.

“I hear that Bill and yourself have a deal.”

“…Did Bill tell you that?”

“Let’s say he did.” Margaux took that as a no. “How about we make a deal of our own?”

Silence again from Margaux.

“I can get you things. Things you want, things you need. I could get you new books.”

“I’m not a prostitute. You can’t just _bribe_ me to have sex with you.”

“Love, love, did I say that?” She scowled at him. He laughed. “Look, I’m not interested in what Bill gets up to with you — how he gets his rocks off is no business of mine —”

“It’s not like that.”

“I’m sure it’s not, love.” His voice practically dripped with condescension. “My point is, Margaux… Bill might be leading this operation, but there are _two people_ here with absolute power over what happens to you. And I think you’ve forgotten that.”

The look he gave her sent an ugly chill down her spine. She swallowed nervously.

“I’m giving you a great deal here, Margie. You know what I could do to you if I wanted to.”

She nodded. Her throat felt dry suddenly. “I know.” She looked down at the musty book in her hands. This wasn’t really about getting something in return for her humiliation, it was about avoiding something worse. The reality of it hung between them in the silence.

“So?”

“…Alright.”

“There’s a girl.” He reached across the sofa and patted her knee. She flinched. “You can go now.”


	19. When Opportunity Knocks

Margaux kept waiting for him to call her back, grab her arm, anything, but as she reached the kitchen door she realised that he really was letting her go.

The first thing she did was quietly pour her tea down the sink and start the kettle boiling anew. She didn’t know how anyone could drink something that sweet — maybe Robert’s last job had been as a builder. Margaux half-smirked at her own joke.

She went through the motions of tea-making on autopilot. The automatic process almost let her forget where she was. Almost. She sat down at the table, crossing her legs to elevate her sore ankle from the ground, and cradled the hot ceramic between her hands.

It felt strange, being in here alone. 

Outside the rain was still falling, dripping off the eaves into growing puddles. The path from the van to the house would be a mire of black mud before too long.

She wondered what was going on in the homes of normal people right now.

She wished she could see her dad.

She wished she could see anyone.

Margaux was staring up at a crack in the ceiling when she realised that she was still waiting for Bill.

The realisation almost made her angry at herself. Why? Why was she waiting for him? Did she think his presence was somehow any better than Robert’s? Why should she feel any safer around one of her kidnappers than the other? In fact, if anything, she should feel safer around Robert — so far his rap sheet against her was significantly shorter. And yet she didn’t, because…

Because Bill had said not to trust him.

That was it, wasn’t it? She hadn’t mistrusted Robert before that. She’d been, what? Indifferent, at best.

But then there _had_ been that moment in the bathroom, the altercation just now in the sitting room…

Margaux rubbed her temples and exhaled softly. She could feel a headache coming on.

There was truth at least in part of what Bill had said to her: he was _not_ the only bad man here.

*

It took her a long time to notice it. When she finally did, she could have kicked herself.

Her gaze was travelling lazily around the kitchen, following the lines of the cabinets, when her eyes flitted across the rounded black rectangle. She stared at it, her disbelief preventing full comprehension of what she was looking at.

Her phone.

It was just sitting there, on top of the fridge. Less than three paces from her chair.

Margaux got up — slowly, listening for Robert or the car — and limped the short distance. Her hand trembled as she reached up and took it.

She could only look at it at first. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by the possibility of rescue. How long would it take someone to get here? Could they trace the call? She hoped so, because she wasn’t going to be much help at giving directions. What if it turned violent? Was there a chance that… no, no, she couldn’t think about that. _Take things one step at a time, Margaux._

She pressed the power button with her thumb, expecting the screen to light up.

Nothing.

She pressed it again, harder. Still nothing.

The battery was dead.

She could have screamed. She could have thrown the phone across the room.

Margaux put the phone back on top of the fridge, walked back to the table, and sat down. She stared down at her tea and felt… nothing.  The hope had drained out of her body and left her with something so much worse than fear.

When the tears came, she welcomed them.

*

Bill didn’t come back until the light had started to go. Margaux listened to the gravel crunch under the tyres with a mixture of hope and trepidation. At least now all she had to fear were the things neither man felt the need to hide.

She didn’t bother to look up as the key turned in the lock, or as the door opened.

“Everything alright?”

She could tell from his tone that his brow was furrowed. He’d have those thin lines across his forehead. Margaux didn’t raise her head from her folded arms.

“Mm-hm.”

His shoes tapped across the flags until he was standing beside her chair.

“Are you ill?”

She exhaled softly and finally sat up. Bill had a white plastic shopping bag in his hand, with SPAR printed across it. The logo looked like a Christmas tree.

“No, I’m fine.”

He grabbed her jaw with an abruptness she was growing used to and forced her to look up at him. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

He pressed his hand against her forehead and she caught the smell of car leather.

“You don’t have a temperature.”

“Because I’m not ill.”

“…You _look_ ill. Go and lie down.”

She got up and took her mug to the sink, turning on the tap. “As you command, _sahib_.”

“Actually…” 

Margaux stopped mid-rinse with an expectant expression.

“Stay.”

She restrained a frustrated tut and returned to her seat. She wondered whether he hadn’t just said that to see if she’d do it. Bill put the bag on the table and started to unpack it, while Margaux looked on with a detached expression.

“Have you been walking around?”

“Not really.”

She felt his gaze rest on her. “You have to stay off it. You’ll make it worse.”

“Your concern for my wellbeing really is touching,” she replied, rubbing one temple in slow circles.

“I was just thinking, Margaux, that you’ll miss out on those walks you love so much.”

“That’s a fair point, I suppose.”

“You see, Margaux, I only have your best interests at heart.” The grin he gave her as she looked up would have been enough to make her want to punch him, had she been a violent person. As it was, she just wanted him to go away.

He turned to put the shopping in the fridge — milk, eggs, the usual basics — and Margaux noticed that there was still one object left in the bag. It formed a little hillock under the crumpled white plastic. She thought better of asking what it was.

“I owe you an apology, I think, for that tumble you took earlier.”

“It was my fault. I should have paid better attention to where I was walking.”

He frowned, leaning back against the counter. “Even so. If you’d gone head-first down those steps we would have lost you.”

“…Oh.” Margaux was no longer sure whether he was apologising or clarifying that his interest in her safety was entirely selfish.

“That’s for you.”

She looked at the bag, then back at him. She didn’t touch it.

“It’s not going to bite you, Margaux.”

She didn’t feel certain of that. Nevertheless, after a moment she reached out her hand and pulled the bag towards her. The impossibly loud crinkling sound grated on her nerves, so she made a point of taking the object inside out quickly.

It was a paper bag — white, with a green pharmacy cross on it. Inside was a chemical ice pack and a compression bandage.

“This is…”

“I realised that we didn’t have any ice. Or an ice-tray.”

Bill rubbed the back of his head. He seemed oddly agitated. Embarrassed, even.

“You went to a pharmacy?”

“There was one on the way back.”

He must have some nerve, she thought, strutting right into a shop at a time like this. Buying things for a woman he’d kidnapped, no less. Of course no one around here — wherever _here_ was — had any reason to be suspicious. There was that.

“Thank you.” She forced a small smile. Margaux had to appreciate the gesture, even if it sprung from some ulterior motive.

She opened the sleeve that contained the bandage and took off her sock, doing her best to ignore the intense gaze that followed her every move.


	20. Alpha

Once the compression bandage was in place — invisible but for the electric blue stripe at the top of her sock — Bill approached and stood beside her. It took Margaux a moment to realise that he was offering her his arm. She fought back the anxiety that was beginning to brew inside her and stood up. It took a minute, however, before she could bring herself to put her hand on his forearm.

With her free hand, she picked up the cooling pack and slipped it into her cardigan pocket.

“Shall we, then?”

His arm was hard beneath his shirtsleeve. The reminder of his physical strength triggered the memory of that first night, made her more nervous still. But she followed, nevertheless, as he led her down the hall. As if she had any choice in the matter.

When they reached the sitting room, Robert was still in Bill’s spot. He caught her eye and fixed her with a knowing look, then stood and moved in front of the television, leaving room for Bill to take his place.

Margaux stood to one side of the door: watching Bill watching Robert watch her. She felt as though her heart might burst. She couldn’t cope with much more of this.

“Robert, go out and get us some food.”

He didn’t respond immediately. An awful, heavy feeling began to churn in Margaux’s belly, as though something terrible was about to happen.

“You were just out. Why didn’t you pick something up?”

With slow, deliberate movements, Bill got back up, and approached Robert until they stood toe to toe, eye to eye. Despite herself, Margaux felt a stab of fear for Bill — he was a tall man, but not a big one. Robert was easily twice as broad across the chest, to say nothing of those enormous fists, clenched by his sides. What would happen if things kicked off? She suspected that things would not go well for her if the larger man won.

“Do you know, it’s amazing, Rob, but I could have sworn I just heard you question me. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t that _strange_?”

She saw him grit his teeth, but to Margaux’s amazement, Robert averted his gaze from Bill’s and seemed to back down. Bill’s face had taken on that eerie, expressionless quality.

“I thought perhaps some Thai. How does that grab you, Margaux?”

She felt at once like a rabbit in car headlights.

“I, um — that sounds fine.”

Bill didn’t once take those cold blue eyes from Robert’s face. It occurred to Margaux for the first time that Robert actually seemed _intimidated_. What did he know about Bill to be afraid of him?

“You heard the lady, Rob. Chop chop.”

Robert turned to go, and as he passed her he met her eye with a dark expression. If Margaux was certain of anything, it was this: she would pay for witnessing Robert’s humiliation tonight.

Heavy steps thudded down the hallway. 

The rustle of paper money. The jingle of keys. 

The front door slammed. The van engine started. 

He was gone, but Margaux stayed stock still — afraid to look at Bill, afraid not to look at him. Bill exhaled softly.

“Margaux, come over here.”

She obeyed, taking her usual spot and looking down at her lap. He didn’t sit. For a few seconds he just looked at her.

“I’m going to open a bottle of wine. Would you like some?” She started to respond in the negative, and he waved a hand dismissively. “Of course you would.”

He swept out of the room, and returned from the kitchen with a bottle, two glasses and a corkscrew. She wondered how they could be so apparently desperate for money and yet spend what they had on wine.

“Here — take that metal seal off for me, if you would. I’ll stick something on.”

Margaux held the bottle between her knees, picking at the little tab at the top. Bill was rifling through the tapes again.

“I found some old horror films at the back here. Do you fancy one?”

“If you like.”

He turned and met her eye. “Is that a yes, or a ‘please don’t hurt me’?”

“I—”

“I won’t hurt you. Not unless you misbehave, Margaux. I promise you that.” His gaze dropped to her hands. “You’ve cut yourself.”

She looked down. There was a smear of blood across the back of her left hand. Blood was welling up from the pad of her right index finger.

“Oh.”

“Let me see.” He crossed back to her side of the room and sat beside her.

“It’s okay. I just nicked it on the bottle…”

He took hold of her wrist and brought her hand up to his mouth, where he took her fingertip between his lips. Margaux’s breath caught in her throat. The heat of his mouth seemed strange to her. As if she had expected it to be cold. Reptilian.

The look in his eyes as his tongue moved over her fingertip was almost too much to bear, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. His gaze was utterly, horribly captivating.

“There. Isn’t that better?”

Margaux was silent. Dumbstruck. Bill laughed and went back to choosing a tape.


	21. Tension

They were watching _The Birds_ when Robert returned. She had been too agitated to pay attention to any of it so far, but she’d seen it before.

As Robert entered the sitting room, Bill slung an arm around Margaux’s shoulders, as if to make a point. Robert scowled. Margaux looked down at her hands and wished she could turn invisible.

“Food’s on the table.”

“Yes. Thank you, Robert.”

“I’ll be in the bath, if you need anything else.”

“ _Thank you_.”

He turned and left. A few moments later, the bathroom door opened and slammed shut. Bill picked up the remote control and paused the video.

He lowered his voice to a jovial, conspiratorial whisper. “Time for another glass, I think.” The wine glugged lazily out of the bottle, speckling the insides of the glass with minute crimson drops. “Stay here. I’ll get your food.”

“…Thanks.”

After he’d disappeared down the hallway, Margaux let out a deep breath. She took a sip of her wine and listened to Bill moving around in the kitchen.

The kitchen.

The fridge.

 _The phone_.

The creep of nauseous anxiety began at the back of her throat. What if she hadn’t put the phone back in the right position? Would he notice? It was very quiet in there all of a sudden. She could imagine him standing there, looking back down the hallway, wondering if it was her that had moved it. Then he’d boot the laptop and check the camera footage. He’d see her trying to switch the phone on — he’d be relieved that it hadn’t worked, but no less angry. Then she’d hear footsteps down the hall, slow and measured.

The rattle of the cutlery drawer as it slammed snapped her out of it. He was coming back. Margaux downed half of her remaining wine in an effort to calm her nerves.

“Everything alright?” Bill walked in holding two waxed paper containers with forks stuck in them. He didn’t _seem_ angry. “Are you more inclined towards chicken or prawns?”

A wave of relief broke over her. He couldn’t have noticed. He couldn’t have.

“I don’t really mind.”

“You must have a preference.”

“Not especially. But…”

“What?”

“I was wondering if you’d let me use that en-suite bathroom… since Rob is using the other one.”

He stared at her. Silent. Thinking.

“Sure. Come on.”

That had been a little easier than she was expecting. Margaux got up and followed Bill out into the hall. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the middle door.

She’d half expected the locked room to be filled with some kind of criminal equipment (whatever that might be, she hadn’t really thought it through that far), but what she saw when the door opened was almost disappointingly pedestrian: a double bed, sheets stretched tight over the mattress with perfect hospital corners, half-covered by the afghan blanket he’d put over her the night she’d slept on the sofa. There was a wooden chair in the corner of the room, with a black kit bag under it. A pile of clothes was neatly folded on the seat.

“It’s through there.” Bill closed the door behind her as she walked in, revealing another door in the adjoining wall. Margaux nodded and went through, into a tiny room with a toilet and a sink, both the colour of oxidised avocado.

When she came out, shaking water from her fingertips, he was sitting on the bed.

“Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

He didn’t move. He just sat there with his elbows on his knees. Watching her. Margaux cleared her throat nervously. After a moment, she started towards the door.

“Margaux… come here.”

She turned back and looked at him, but didn’t move.

“Come here.”

She stepped towards him, and he sat upright. His knees stayed wide. Bill beckoned her towards him until she was standing between his feet. He put one hand on her hip, and she flinched. He didn’t react, didn’t speak — Bill stared at Margaux, barely having to look up at her, so dramatic was their difference in height.

“I, um…” She looked down at her hands. That was a mistake — she just found herself looking down at the crotch of Bill’s jeans. She averted her gaze to the window, fogged with condensation. The hand moved up to her waist, curling around the sudden inward curve, and she felt panic start to gnaw at her belly. “Your food will be getting cold.”

Bill exhaled sharply and frowned. His hand dropped, and he stood before she had time to step back. Margaux collided with his chest, and he grasped her arm. “Let’s go, then.”

*

There was a tension in the silence as they sat down and Bill picked up the remote. Margaux drew away to the far end of the sofa.

He hit play, and the tape made a strained whirring sound before the screen sprang back into life.

“Margaux, I thought we agreed that you were going to be a little friendlier.”

She watched him sit back. “I _have_ been. I’ve done everything you’ve asked, haven’t I?”

“There are things I shouldn’t still have to ask you to do.”

“I don’t…” She could feel the heat rising in her face, the gnawing panic returning and building.

“No matter how many times I tell you to sit next to me, you _still_ _sit_ _all the way over there_. Can you understand how much that frustrates me? To tell you the same thing, over and over again?”

“I’m sorry."

“Good.”

She moved to sit next to him, and he put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him.

“I want you to be at least this close next time.”

“Alright…” She sat dumbfounded. At _least_? How much closer could she possibly be? The smell of him was distracting — all masculine heat and hand soap and cologne.

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

“Which one?”

“Stop stalling. Either one.”

She lifted her left hand from her thigh, and he took it in his. His hands were so much bigger, she reflected, trying not to seem as though she was looking. They were nice hands — long-fingered, elegant. Musician’s hands. Beauty, she thought, should be reserved for good people.

He held her index finger and flexed it a little.

“…I could break your finger right now. There’s nothing you could do to stop me.” His tone was thoughtful, as though he were speaking to himself more than her.

She turned her head to look up at him, trying to keep a calm exterior. “Will you?”

He was silent for a long time, his brow furrowed. He looked almost confused. “No. I don’t think I want to.”

“Well… that’s good.” 

He was moving his fingers over hers, turning her hand this way and that, as if it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“I don’t know about that. I feel as though I ought to do something else to you instead.”

“Why do you have to do anything to me?” she murmured, fighting to stop herself from shaking. He looked at her at last.

“Because that’s how this works, Margaux.”

“But… what did I do?”

“Don’t make yourself pathetic. It makes me want to hurt you more.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.” She looked down at their hands.

The film had ended without either of them noticing. When Margaux looked up at the screen, the credits were rolling.

“Eat your dinner, Margaux.” He sat forward, pushing her hand away from him as though it had been her that put it there, and picked up one of the waxed paper containers.

He switched the channel over to television, and Margaux picked up the remaining container. She ate her cold food in a confused silence.


	22. Dealbreaker

He set his container on the table, and she moved to get up.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting these in the kitchen.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to walk around? Sit down.”

“I’m sorry.” Margaux sat back against the sofa cushions and folded her hands in her lap. She stared up at the buck’s head on the wall. Her eyes felt hot and her throat was tight. She hoped she wasn’t going to cry. She didn’t think he’d like that.

“Finish your wine.”

She leaned forward and picked up the glass from the coffee table. As she sat back, he raised his hand and curled his long fingers around the back of her neck, and she couldn’t suppress a whimper.

“What’s the matter, Margaux?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.”

“You seem awfully agitated.”

“I’m not agitated.”

“Are you contradicting me for the sake of it?”

“No.”

She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Margaux raised the glass to her lips and finished the remaining wine in one backwards tilt of her head. She wished she could be drunk enough not to care what happened next — although she suspected that the amount of alcohol required for that might just kill her.

“You were fine five minutes ago, Margaux.”

“So were you.”

He was silent. She wished she hadn’t said that.

“What do you mean?”

“You _were_ fine, and now you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“You _seem_ angry.” 

“Well I’m not.”

“Alright,” she answered quickly, hoping to pacify him. She leaned forward and put the empty glass down. His hand slid down her back. When she moved back into her seat, he slowly, deliberately placed it back over the little bump of her vertebrae.

“Don’t humour me, Margaux. I don’t need that from you.”

“I-I wasn’t-”

He turned to face her, the hand on her neck holding her tightly in place as she tried to move away.

“Do you think if you’re good enough, if you say just the right thing, that I won’t hurt you? Is that what you think?”

Margaux looked up at him with a desperate expression.

“ _That’s what you promised me_.”

Her face was inches from his, held in place as it was by the hand that tightened its grip. As his eyes searched hers, she felt his free hand rest on her thigh. Margaux bit her lip.

“It was, wasn’t it?” 

He frowned. The grip relaxed a little. From the bathroom, there was a sudden sound of plastic hitting tile, and Robert swore.

“I don’t understand what I’ve done that makes you want to hurt me so badly.” Margaux’s voice shook as she spoke, barely above a whisper. She wanted so much to understand him — even if all that understanding offered was the realisation of what a monster he really was.

“You haven’t done anything.”

“Then why…”

“ _That’s_ why, Margaux. That’s exactly why.”

She shifted uncomfortably in his grip. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.”

“But I…”

“Shut up, Margaux.” He closed the gap between them, and his mouth covered hers. Margaux gave a yelp of surprise and raised her hands to push him away, and he grabbed her wrists. She struggled, pulling desperately against his tightening grip, and Bill gave a low growl of frustration.

“ _Why are you fighting me?_ ”

“I…”

“You’re right, Margaux. We did have a deal. A deal that only stands if you fulfil your half of it. You’re not being very co-operative.”

“I’m sorry.” She felt tears prickling in her eyes. The worst part was knowing that he was right: whatever he wanted, she’d already promised he could have it.

His lips brushed her temple, his breath tickling her ear as he whispered: “Would you rather I hurt you?”

“…No.”

“Then don’t fight.” He let go of her wrists, and one hand moved back to her thigh while the other coaxed her into facing him. When his mouth found hers again, she didn’t resist, nor did she respond. Her back was stiff, her hands trembling. He didn’t seem to notice. Maybe he just didn’t care.

She had locked her knees together without meaning to, but as his insistent fingers slid under the hem of her skirt, pushing at her thighs, she couldn’t bring herself to part them. He felt her resistance and sighed angrily.

“Are we going to play this game all night, Margaux?”

“I’m trying. I’m… I’m really trying.” The tears finally overflowed, and she turned her face away. She so badly wanted to be stronger than this. Hatred for her own weakness seethed in her chest and only made things worse.

“If you’re expecting some kind of consolation, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“I don’t want your _consolations_! I just want you to be the same one moment as you are the next. What’s wrong with a little fucking consistency?”

“I’m not inconsistent.” He scowled. “I’m honest about who I am, Margaux. Are you?”

“You’re just…”

“What, Margaux? What am I?” He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to look back at him, and she pulled at his forearm in an effort to free herself.

“ _You’re just an animal!_ ”

“Is that right? I think you forget yourself, Margaux. Perhaps you’d rather I hurt you after all.”

“No, no I—” He pulled her hair sharply, and the pain wrenched a sob from her throat. “I’m sorry! _Please-_ ”

“I think you’d better make up your mind, Margaux. I’m giving you ample opportunity.”

For one awful, awful moment, she truly couldn’t decide what would be worse. Bill looked down at her trembling mouth and groaned.

"Margaux, you're so fucking beautiful when you're afraid."

“I-I’m…”

"What?" A mocking smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not afraid of you." She tried to say something scathing about pity, but the look in his eyes ground all coherent thought to a halt.

“I thought we’d established that you weren’t to lie to me. Have you been listening to me _at all_?” 

He kissed her aggressively, forcing his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of burning spice and red wine and the unfamiliar. She thought about biting him and then thought better of it. As he pulled away, he bit _her_ , and Margaux yelped.

“I think you’d better get on your knees.” He relinquished his grip on her hair. Margaux didn’t move. “I won’t say it again.”

Slowly, warily, she moved forward and slid down onto the floor. He pointed to the carpet between his feet. Margaux dug her nails into her palms and forced herself to move. Her tears had stopped, but she could feel the threat of a sob at the back of her throat as she moved between his knees.

She looked at him expectantly. Margaux knew exactly what he wanted, but she wasn’t about to give it to him without any resistance — even if the only resistance she could afford to offer was making him wait.

Bill gave her a sharp look — one that said he was in no mood to meet any further objections. Margaux swallowed nervously and knelt up, raising shaking hands and forcing herself to lay them on his thighs. It felt strange to be touching him. Like taking a liberty beyond her position.

She couldn’t meet his eye. It was too much. She could see his pale gaze in her peripheral vision, locked on her. He was perfectly still — silent — like a hunter trying not to spook an animal as it wandered closer. Waiting.

Margaux knew what she had to do next. Her gaze flickered down to the topmost button of his fly; a gleaming, awful certainty.

“They’re beautiful,” Bill said suddenly, and despite her fear of doing so Margaux found herself looking up at him.

“…What are?”

“Your hands. They’re beautiful,” he clarified, then frowned, as though he wasn’t certain why he’d said it.

“Oh.”

Margaux tasted blood, and found that she’d been biting the inside of her mouth in an effort to dispel the urge to try and run.

Bill didn’t say anything else. He leaned back on the sofa as if relaxing in anticipation of her next action, but he did so with an air of agitation.

It was like tearing gaffer tape off skin, Margaux decided. The thing was to do it quickly, before her brain had time to come up with another reason not to. She moved her hands forward, slid her fingertips under the hem of Bill’s shirt, and began to work deft fingers around the top button of his jeans. Bill sighed, and one hand found the back of her head, fingers winding in her hair. She tried not to think about the warm skin her fingers brushed over, or the trail of coarse, dark blond hair that led downward.

She managed the first two buttons in quick succession, but hesitated at the third. His arousal was quickly becoming evident, and if she continued… she would have to touch him. She was all for avoiding that for as long as possible.

No. No, on the other hand, she shouldn’t draw it out. The sooner it began, the sooner it would end.

This fighting with herself wasn’t doing any good, of course. She had enough to be concerned with without constantly contradicting her own advice.

Margaux moved down to the next button and tried to pretend she was doing something else.

Suddenly his hand moved to her shoulder and pushed her back, a little too roughly. 

She looked at him in confusion from the floor.

“That’s enough.”

He stood up and crossed behind her to the space in front of the television. She turned to watch him, half-expecting him to demand that she lie down on the carpet. He didn’t. Bill started to button his fly.

“Go to bed, Margaux.”

“But-”

He raised his hand. “ _Don’t_. Just… don’t say another word. Get out.”

His mouth had drawn into a tight line, the tendon in his cheek taut as he clenched his jaw. It was as though a sudden realisation had vexed him immeasurably.

Margaux got up, fighting the shaking of her legs, and turned to leave. She misjudged the weight on her ankle, stumbled, and righted herself again. She could feel Bill’s gaze burning into her as she limped out into the hallway. Shame and anger battled for supremacy inside her, roiling in her lungs until she thought she’d faint. She could feel the heat rising in her face, that tight feeling taking hold of her throat.

There was a sharp rattle of a bolt being drawn, and Robert emerged, whistling, from the bathroom. He stopped her as she tried to pass without acknowledging him.

“Alright?” His face was slightly flushed. She didn’t like to think what he’d been doing in the bathroom that had put him in such a good mood.

“I’m fine.” She pulled her wrist from his grip, and he let her.

 _“Margaux. Bed.”_ Bill raised his voice from the sitting room. Robert shot her a bemused look. She pushed past him, and he made no attempt to stop her.

When she reached the end bedroom, Margaux slammed the door behind her, sank to the floor, and wept.

*

Bill snatched up the pillow from the meticulously neat bed, wringing it between his hands as he sat down.

He sat in silence for a long time, staring at a patch on the wall where the paint was a slightly different shade of off-white.

It irritated him, that patch. To him it was glaringly obvious — an offensive splatter of _wrong_ , marring the uniformly-coloured landscape of the wall like a flaw in an otherwise perfect plan.

Her hands.

His fist came down sharply on the mattress, and the bedsprings creaked.

Why had he said that? Why should he give the slightest shit what her hands looked like, much less mention it?

Bill took off his shoes, set them next to the chair, and lay down on the bed. He thought about booting the laptop — it lay on top of the pile of clothes — but he couldn’t see that there was anything to be gained from that tonight.

After a while, he got up to turn off the light.


	23. Suspicion

Margaux lay on her side, staring at the bar of yellow light beneath the door. She’d long since cried out the last of the moisture in her body, or so it seemed. She felt like an empty husk — one gust of wind and she’d blow away. How nice if she could.

She’d forgotten again. That was why it got to her. Why it still hurt. Every time she thought that crushing sense of emptiness would overwhelm her, one of them brought her back up, treating her like a human being for just long enough to give her some sense of contrast. She wished they’d let her drown in hopeless apathy and be done with it.

She wondered if they enjoyed this — if they’d done it to the others, the ones before her. She wasn’t sure whether that would make it better or worse.

Maybe the two of them weren’t even fighting. Maybe it was all some elaborate good cop, bad cop routine, designed to keep her nervous, to keep her well-behaved.

No, that was ridiculous.

…Still.

Margaux couldn’t completely shake the notion that they were playing some strange game with her.

She turned over sharply to face the wall, taking the blanket with her. She wrapped it around herself like an itchy cocoon, burying her face in the flat, almost impractically thin pillow, and drew her legs up against her chest. Tomorrow was another day. One that brought with it a whole new collection of reasons to be afraid.

*

Bill couldn’t sleep.

At first he had been kept awake by the barely audible sobs from Margaux’s room. His first instinct had been to storm in and tell her to shut up — to threaten her if necessary — but after sitting up he had suddenly thought better of it.

Now that the house had descended into a near-silence, punctuated only by the distant hum of the television, it was only his thoughts that kept him awake.

He sat with the sheet crumpled around his midsection, staring into the darkness at nowhere in particular.

Something was deeply wrong with Margaux, he realised. Something was different. Not her reaction to his sudden advances — that was to be expected — but her behaviour before. She’d been agitated about something. As if she was waiting to be accused.

What had happened?

What had she _done_?

He slid his legs off the edge of the bed, threw off the sheet and reached for his boxers.

*

He didn’t know why he wanted to see her in the flesh. He had no intention of waking her up… not until he was sure. Yet there he stood, in the doorway of the end bedroom, looking down at the sleeping hostage curled around herself. There was a kind of reassurance, he supposed, in seeing her with his own eyes. Hearing her breathing.

She flinched, and for a second he was sure she was awake. But she only tightened her grip around her upper arms and drew her legs closer, curling into a smaller ball. Was she cold, or dreaming?

As he turned to go back to his room and dress, he thought he heard her whimper softly.

*

Margaux was walking up the rain-slicked steps where she had fallen. It was dark, and freezing cold. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

She knew that she’d managed to get out here alone somehow. Had she escaped?

The steps ended, and as she stood at the top of the hill she couldn’t make out anything in the distance. Not a light inside a house, nor the headlamps of a car. Where was she supposed to go?

“No one’s coming for you.”

She turned to face the voice and found herself surrounded by four perfect doppelgängers, each of their identical faces marred by an expression of pity and disgust. All at once the darkness of the night was replaced with the faint yellow glow of the kitchen bulb.

“Don’t say that. You don’t know…”

The Margaux to her left shook her head. “No one’s even looking for you.”

“No one knows you’re gone,” added the one to her right.

Behind her: “No one’s noticed.”

Before her: “No one _cares._ ”

“David will pay them. He will.”

“Oh, _sweetheart_. No. He won’t.”

“He’s got no emotional investment in your safety, dear. None at all.”

“So what if something happens to you? He’s got plenty more cash cows where you came from.”

“ _Plenty_.”

“Shut up, all of you! I don’t need to hear this-” They blocked her path as she tried to push through them, back towards the front door.

“Yes you do, darling.”

“Because you’re still holding out hope-”

“-And because you don’t seem to have accepted what those men are going to do to you-”

“-When they realise you’re worthless.”

“And you are. Worthless.”

“You need a plan to get out of here, sweetheart. You have to escape before they have a chance to hurt you.”

“But-”

“Or do you think they’ll keep you alive _out of the goodness of their hearts_? Just let you go?”

“What am I supposed to do? There’s no way out.”

“Isn’t there? Or are you just not looking for one?”

“You’d better find it, darling. Before it’s too late.”

*

She opened her eyes to find Bill standing over her in the light of the open door.

Margaux didn’t think she’d ever moved so fast in her life: before she knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, trying to be anywhere but on the bed. He grabbed her by the arm and threw her back down.

“There’s no need to look like that, Margaux. I only want to have a talk with you.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed. She inched away.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

His tone was conversational, gentle, and entirely, glaringly fake. It was the affectionate coo of someone calling an animal into the slaughterhouse.

She swallowed compulsively. “…Should there be?”

“We both know the answer to that question. ”

“I don’t think _I_ do.”

He put his hand on her wrist, and she pulled it away sharply.

“Now, Margaux, there’s no need for this. Calm down.”

“I’m…” She took a shuddering breath and pressed herself back against the wall. “I’m perfectly calm.”

“That just isn’t true, Margaux. How are we supposed to have a civilised talk with you panicking?”

She was silent, but for her quickened breathing. He put his hands on her shoulders, and she had nowhere to go. Instead she looked away.

“Please, I don’t know what you want…”

“I want you to take deep breaths — slow — that’s right. That’s better. Now look at me. _Look at me_. Don’t make me force you.” He fixed her with what, in another man, might have passed for an earnest look. She knew him too well to be convinced. “What happened today?”

“Today?”

“Today.” A look of impatience flickered in his eyes, before he fought it back.

“Nothing. Nothing happened.”

“Margaux, I don’t know who you think you’re fooling but it certainly isn’t me. Tell me — now, before I get bored.”

“Tell you _what?_ ”

Bill sighed.

“Robert left your mobile in the kitchen this morning.”

“…Did he?” Margaux tried to force a blank, impassive expression, but she knew at once that she was caught.

“Yes. Despite my instruction to keep it on him at all times.”

“Oh.”

Bill was silent. The intensity of his stare frightened her, and she tried to look away again. He grabbed her chin and held her in place.

“I know you found it, Margaux. I _know_ you did. All I want to know is whether you tried to use it.”

“I don’t know what you mean-”

His hand released her chin and cracked across her cheek, and Margaux’s head snapped sideways with the force of it.

“I’m going to ask you once more.” He grabbed her hair and moved in so close he was nearly on top of her, tipping her head back so sharply she almost expected him to bite her exposed throat. “Look into my eyes and tell me that you didn’t try to use that phone. I dare you.”

She stared up at him, hardly daring to breathe.

“Go on, Margaux — tell me.”

“I-I didn’t-”

His hand cracked across her face again, and when she cried out he clamped a hand over her mouth.

"You lied to me, Margaux. _Again_. I thought we were past that." Bill pushed her down onto the bed and pinned her in place with his full weight, his hand still muffling her cries. “I thought I’d made it clear to you that lying to me wouldn’t get you anywhere.”

She cried out something that sounded like _“I’m sorry,”_ followed by a _“please.”_ She hadn’t the strength to struggle, not really, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

“I can’t entirely blame you. I accept that. You saw an opportunity and you went for it — okay. But didn’t we have a deal? Does your own safety matter _so little to you_ that you’d risk getting caught doing a stupid thing like that?”

She just looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. Silent. His large hand across her face made her feel small and all too breakable.

He frowned.

“I’ll decide what to do with you later. Clearly Robert and I need to have a talk about his lax approach to security. Stay in here, and shut up.” She nodded hurriedly, eager for him to get off her and leave.

Bill slowly took his hand away from her face, and she drew in a sharp breath. He moved off her and stood, straightening his shirt.

“You promised not to disappoint me, Margaux.”

He left before she had time to respond, slamming the door behind him without glancing back.

*

It was very quiet for a few minutes. Margaux strained to hear something, anything, but either they weren’t yet talking, or they had gone outside.

Then suddenly, so loudly it startled her, in a voice that was undeniably Bill’s:

“You _irresponsible cunt_!”

There was a crash, then a yell.

She pressed her ear against the door, biting her lip.

“What did I tell you? What did I _fucking tell you_?”

“Bill, mate, I don’t know how the bitch got it-”

“We both know _exactly_ how she got it, you lying prick. _You_ left the fucking thing in the kitchen. _Right out in the open_. I’m amazed she didn’t notice it sooner!”

“It was a mistake, mate-”

“Don’t you fucking _insult me_ , Rob. _A mistake_? Are you trying to be fucking _funny_? If the battery hadn’t conked out, the girl would have called the police. We’d’ve been in handcuffs before we knew what was going on! Both of us in the lockbox for eight years, at the very _least_ , over _one fucking mistake_.”

There was a long silence. Margaux moved back from the door and sat down on the bed.

He’d been furious. Really furious.

She had expected as much. Her little discovery might have cost him his freedom, after all. 

Margaux lay on the bed, curling into the fetal position. 

The side of her face was beginning to ache. The adrenaline must have been wearing off. She wondered dimly if she’d have bruises in the morning. The salt tang of blood in her mouth surprised her, and she raised a hand to her lip to find that the cut there had reopened. Oh yes, she’d be a pretty mess come daylight.


	24. Crime & Punishment

At the sound of measured, deliberate footfalls, Margaux sat up and put her back against the wall.

The bar of light beneath the door was broken in two spots, where the man on the other side stood. The question, of course, was which man. She watched the shadow, waiting, hoping whoever it was that he’d change his mind and leave.

The metal handle rattled softly, and Margaux’s breath caught in her throat, her hands moving to pull the blanket against her chest in the dark.

It turned slowly, quietly. Maybe they thought she was asleep. 

The door opened, throwing an exaggerated rectangle of light across the bed, and Bill walked in, his gangly shadow stretching out towards her. She had a strange urge to move away from it, as if the shadow itself might do her some harm.

He switched on the light, and the ghoulish shape was lost in the flicker of the low-watt bulb.

Bill closed the door with a soft click, then leaned back against it, folding his arms. 

There was blood on his knuckles. 

Margaux compulsively dabbed at her split lip, afraid to take her eyes off him. He met her wary gaze with a look of cold detachment.

“I’ve been trying to think of an appropriate punishment for you.”

She swallowed nervously around the growing lump in her throat. In her head, images were racing out of control — vivid re-enactments of every sadistic act she’d ever heard of, with herself and her captor as the players.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Margaux was silent. Lying about how sorry she was would only make him angry. Defending her actions, doubly so.

“No,” she said at last. Bill raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Really?” He moved away from the door, standing between it and the bed, his arms still folded. Margaux involuntarily tightened her grip on the blanket.

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“…You could tell me you’re sorry.”

“You told me not to lie to you.”

Bill laughed, and the tension in the room dissipated a little. Maybe he’d already vented his frustration on Robert. She felt a little guilty at the relief that thought gave her.

“Then I suppose you’re not going to promise not to do anything like that again, either?”

“I would be lying if I said I’d never take an opportunity that was handed to me like that.”

“I can respect that.” He turned and sat beside her on the bed with his back against the wall, one foot resting on the mattress. Her gaze flickered to the blotches of maroon drying onto his knuckles. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. But I can respect your honesty.”

“At this point I might as well be.”

She was trying hard to remain calm, but her voice was trembling.

“And as long as we’re _being_ honest, Margaux…” One long-fingered hand reached out and encircled her ankle through the blanket. “You weren’t very compliant this evening. I’m not happy about that.”

“I—”

“ _Don’t say_ you’re sorry. You were doing so well. Let’s stick to the truth, shall we?” His thumb moved in slow circles over her ankle bone. The sprained tendon ached dully beneath the gentle pressure. “Knowing what I know now, I can see why you might have been agitated. Doubtless your mind was already overwrought. So I forgive you.”

“…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

His hand slid up her leg to her knee, and she flinched away instinctively. Bill frowned. 

“If it happens again, I will not be as understanding. Is that clear?”

He placed his hand back on her knee in a slow, deliberate motion, and she looked down at it with trepidation. “Crystal clear.”

“It _isn’t going_ to happen again, is it?”

She met his eye and instantly regretted it. Her throat tightened.

“No,” she murmured, in a voice that was as small as she felt.

He stared at her unblinkingly, and in that moment Margaux was certain she had a fairly good idea of how a gazelle must feel.

“Stand up.”

“But I’m—”

“I _know_ you weren’t just about to say no, Margaux. Not after the conversation we just had. You wouldn’t be that foolish, would you, darling?”

“…No. I wouldn’t.”

She moved her legs over the edge of the bed beneath the blanket. As she stood, she tugged the hem of her camisole down over her bare thighs. Now that she stood here, avoiding the eye of the man sitting on the bed and instead fixating on the wall behind him, she didn’t know what had possessed her to take anything off when she went to bed. But then, she knew that was immaterial: she was just as vulnerable no matter how many layers she wore. It would only take someone longer to rip them off.

“Look at me, Margaux.”

It was only with a great deal of effort that she could bring herself to do as he said. And when she did, the look in those intensely blue eyes was one of…

Hunger.

She swallowed nervously. Bill leaned forward, and as he did she took a compulsive step back. He ignored it, resting his forearms on his knees and looking up at her with a kind of ravenous fascination.

“Take that off.”

“My—”

“Yes.”

Without thinking, she bit her lip, and tasted iron. That cut would never heal at this rate. Her fingers trembling, she grasped the hem of her top and pulled it over her head.

As her hair settled against the bare skin of her back, she clutched the garment to her chest, shivering, and without a word Bill held out his hand. After a moment, she handed it to him.

“Good girl.”

Suddenly the room felt too brightly lit. She was certain that her every imperfection was even clearer to him than it was to her. If his objective was to humiliate her — and she was increasingly certain that it was, even if his arousal was a happy by-product — then he was making an efficient job of it. She wrapped her arms around herself self-consciously.

“I said look at me, Margaux. You’re looking at the wall again.” He held the crumpled fabric of her camisole in his lap, twisting and turning it in his deft fingers. Her stomach felt as if it was receiving the same treatment. “That’s better.” He grinned at her, and she was certain she was going to be sick. “What’s wrong, Margaux? Are you afraid?”

“I think you know the answer to that question.”

He shifted forward until he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Her voice cracked as she answered:

“…Yes.”

His wide, petulant mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smile.

“Good.”

Beneath her folded arms, Margaux was digging her fingernails into her palm.


	25. Crime & Punishment, part II

“Take off your bra.”

“Please—”

“ _Off_.”

She took a deep breath in an attempt to settle her nerves, but it caught and trembled in her throat. Margaux forced herself to uncoil her arms from her midsection, which was harder than she thought it would be with him looking at her like that, and reached back between her shoulder blades to unhook the clasp of her bra. She became conscious of the weight of her breasts as the garment loosened around them, and raised one arm to support them as she slid off the straps.

“Drop it on the floor. And…” he scratched his cheek thoughtfully, “I didn’t say you could cover yourself.”

She lowered her arm, but couldn’t bring herself to keep eye contact. She wished the ground would open up beneath her.

The seconds seemed to drag out into minutes. Hours. Bill regarded her silently, their breathing the only sound in the tiny room as Margaux trembled in fearful anticipation of that request which she knew must eventually come. And what then?

“Those, too,” he said at last.

Her eyes widened a little. Margaux didn’t move.

When Bill spoke again, it was in a low, hoarse voice.

“Take. Off. Your underwear. _Now._ ”

His tone frightened her, but not nearly as much as his expression. It told her that when he had her — and he would — it would not be gentle.

Biting back a quiet sob, she moved her fingertips beneath the waistband of her lace briefs and began to slide them down over her hips. She stepped out of them as they reached her ankles, and stood with one hand shielding her pubic mound, as if somehow that might help.

“Give them to me.”

She looked at the fabric in her hand, then back at him. He raised an expectant eyebrow. After a moment she placed the crumpled lace on his outstretched palm, immediately pulling back her arm in an attempt to stay out of reach. He closed his long fingers around her balled-up underwear and slipped them into the pocket of his jeans. She frowned in confusion. At this point, raising any objection seemed redundant.

In one sudden motion he was standing, and his proximity startled her so badly that she almost ended up on the floor as she stumbled backward away from him.

“I don’t know where you keep thinking you’re going. You’re not leaving this room until I let you. Do you understand?”

She nodded slowly, feeling the edge of the desk press against her back. He moved forward and placed his hands on the desk to either side of her, trapping her in place. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. The fabric of his shirt was tenting forward as he leaned over her, brushing against her bare flesh. Margaux’s breath hitched, and for a moment she was afraid that he might interpret the sound as arousal.

After one long, uncomfortable minute, during which Margaux tried desperately to lean away from Bill without looking as if she was, while Bill seemed to be attempting to commit every detail of her to memory, he moved back a little and took his arms from her sides.

She was relieved until she heard the distinct jingling of his belt buckle.

“Don’t look down, Margaux. _Here_. Look at me.” 

One hand grasped her jaw to correct her wandering gaze, forcing her head back until she was looking up at him again, then returned to its original purpose. Her head was tilted too far back to track his actions in her peripheral vision, but she had a clear enough idea of what he was doing. He pulled his shirt out of the way, the fabric tickling across her belly. 

“Give me your hand.” 

She cast him a fearful look, but did as she was told. He took her by the wrist and guided her hand between them until her cool, trembling fingers brushed hot, turgid flesh. Feeling her resistance, he closed his fingers over hers, forcing her to wrap her hand around his erection. It twitched in her grasp, his pulse ticking against her palm, and Bill’s grip on her hand tightened as he inhaled sharply. He moved closer, leaning over her as he had before, until her hand was caught between their bodies.

The first coherent thought that came into her mind was of his size. He was only slightly smaller around than her wrist, and, judging from how high against her belly her hand was, long enough to be uncomfortable. She’d had a man that big before without much trouble, but somehow she doubted that Bill would be as gentle or as patient as that man had been.

His hand was moving over hers, drawing it up and down in short, languid strokes. After a while he stopped, giving Margaux an expectant look, and she obediently took up the rhythm. He groaned appreciatively and lowered his face to hers, capturing her mouth in a ravenous kiss that had the dual effects of moving his chest away from her and pressing his hips harder against her, while his newly freed hands roamed over her bare flesh, pulling her against him with rough insistence until she had no option but to slide her free arm around his neck to keep from falling over.

Margaux was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the smell of him, the taste of his mouth. Her chest felt strange and heavy. Through the fabric of his shirt, her nails scratched at his shoulder in long rents that would leave thin red lines on his skin.

His fingers brushed her inner thigh, and despite herself she pulled away with a whimper. He growled in frustration and wrapped one arm around her waist, lifting her onto the desk and holding her firmly in place while he manoeuvred his hips between her legs, making it impossible to push her thighs together. Her whole body jolted away when he touched her, his fingertips brushing across the warm, soft flesh of her labia, but there was nowhere to go. The hand that had been between their bodies was now thrown out behind her, the only thing that kept her from falling backward onto the desk, but if he noticed he didn’t care. His attention was focused solely on the movement of his deft forefinger as it travelled downward, following the contours of her sex until it found her entrance.

She felt his mouth narrow into a grin against hers as he rubbed his fingertip in slow circles against her, and she realised with dismay that she was wet.

Bill released her mouth, leaving her taking gasping breaths, and laughed.

“ _You dirty bitch_ ,” he whispered, with evident pleasure. “If I’d known you’d like it…”

She opened her mouth to object, but he put a finger to her lips.

“Don’t go saying something you’ll regret, Margaux.” He grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the desk, then yanked at the waist of his jeans, pulling them down over his hips. “You just have a talent for getting yourself in trouble, don’t you?”

She looked up at him beseechingly, hoping against hope that he was only trying to frighten her, that in a moment he’d laugh in that mocking way and tell her to put her clothes back on. But as she felt the hot, broad head of his manhood bump her thigh, she knew that it was time to face reality. Bill’s lips brushed her throat, and her eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. He was stroking himself from her slick entrance up to her clit and back again, and her body was cruelly interpreting it as pleasure. Margaux bit her lip hard, waiting.

In one abrupt movement, he bent his knees a little, lined himself up with her and thrust inwards, pulling her onto him. She cried out at the harsh combination of pressure and friction, his size stretching her entirely unprepared flesh, and he clapped a hand over her mouth, then groaned — her muscles were involuntarily tightening around him as she tried to relax them, and it had the unintended effect of massaging his length as he pushed into her.

“ _Fuck_ , Margaux.”

He pulled out briefly, granting her temporary relief only to plunge his full length into her. He stayed like that for a heartbeat, pushing deeper, until the pressure at the mouth of her womb drew a sob from her throat, then slowly drew out and began to thrust in earnest.

Despite the contradiction in the action, Margaux found herself clinging to him, wrapping her legs around his narrow hips and grasping at his back in a desperate attempt to find some comfort in his touch. Bill seemed to interpret that as an encouragement, and increased the speed of his movements. All at once, she felt heat beginning to build at her centre, as if completely by accident he had hit exactly the right spot, and she couldn’t suppress a moan.

“That’s more like it, isn’t it?” he murmured softly, his breath tickling her ear. Margaux didn’t respond, moving her hips against him in pursuit of that delicious friction, resolute that if she had been handed a pleasurable escape that she would take it. Bill grinned and drew back, moving away from the desk until she was forced to let go of him. She looked at him with equal parts confusion and mild annoyance, watching him kick off his jeans. He sat down on the bed. “Come here.”

She slid off the desk and stood in front of him. Waiting. He took hold of her wrists and drew her towards him until she was kneeling on either side of his lap on the mattress. One hand caressed the generous swell of her rear as the other angled his erection, and then he was slipping back inside her, drawing a fresh moan from her lips. He took her arms and slung them over his shoulders, encouraging her to hold onto him again before his large, warm hands moved over her hips, grasping her soft flesh and thrusting up into her. She responded in kind, wriggling against him, seeking that warm, roiling pleasure of before.

Bill pulled her mouth against his, and she impulsively bit his lower lip. He growled warmly, grabbing her hair and exposing her pale throat to deliver a bite of his own. Margaux gasped and bucked her hips against him, feeling his arm around her waist drawing her closer as her pelvic muscles began to flutter around him, their collective breath quickening as they drove each other nearer and nearer to the edge.

Suddenly, her very core seemed to be convulsing in waves so intense that she cried out into Bill’s shoulder. He pulled Margaux down onto him, his nails digging painfully into her hip as he rode out her orgasm, letting it tip him into his own, which came with a long, low groan and a final upward thrust.

As the pleasure began to dissipate, and they clung to each other, panting, Margaux began to feel the all too familiar creep of regret. 

What was she thinking?

What had she _done_?


	26. Du Reichst So Gut

It was Bill who eventually broke the silence, murmuring into her hair:

“I’ll admit that didn’t go exactly as planned.”

Margaux was silent, her forehead resting against his shoulder.

He squeezed her thigh possessively. “You’re still in trouble. Make no mistake about that.”

Margaux moved to kneel up and climb off Bill’s lap, but he put an arm around her waist and held her in place, his erection still turgid enough to rub painfully against her cervix. Now that the moment had passed, she was beginning to realise that this position made his size especially uncomfortable.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I—”

“I’m not done with you, Margaux. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

“…Alright.”

She couldn’t imagine what more he could expect to do to her if he was already spent, although she thought better of vocalising that particular question. In fact now that she thought about it she was certain she didn’t want to know. The reality would surely be unpleasant enough without anticipation beforehand.

Margaux felt an acid surge of self-loathing. What would have happened, if only this treacherous wreck of a body hadn’t decided to join the figurative party without her? Whatever he chose to do with her would have been humiliating — she was certain of that — but she honestly didn’t believe that he had been planning on having her. Not tonight. Her throat tightened at the thought, and she could feel the prickly heat of tears threatening to blur her vision.

No. She shouldn’t cry. If only to rob him of the satisfaction of being the cause.

Margaux laid her head back on his hard shoulder and did her best to feign indifference.

She was starting to shiver. Without the benefit of arousal or movement to keep her distracted, every bare inch that wasn’t pressed against Bill was feeling the cold. She fought the reflexive urge to pull herself against him, knowing that any further display that could be interpreted as affection or physical attraction would only work against her.

Oh god, she wanted to scream.

_What had she been thinking?_ It was as if she’d temporarily lost all faculties of reason. A normal person wouldn’t have behaved like that. A normal person would have fought for their decency, for their _dignity_. What had _she_ done? She might as well have thrown herself at him from the beginning, if she was just going to turn around and start _enjoying it_. Who knew what he must think of her now? Or, more importantly, what he might _expect_ of her.

She was startled out of her reverie as Bill began to move. His grip around her tightened, and he turned and threw her unceremoniously onto the bed, giving her barely a moment to look up at him in surprise before he crawled on top of her. She glanced down to avoid his eye and instantly regretted it, although she supposed there was some small comfort in seeing his erection fading.

“Don’t move.”

She resisted the compulsion to ask him where exactly he thought she was going to go.

His hand cracked across her cheek, and she looked up at him with a bemused expression.

“What did I—”

“ _‘Yes, sir.’_ Say it.”

“I…” The hand hovered threateningly. “Yes… sir…?”

“Mean it.”

She swallowed nervously.

“Yes, sir.”

“…Good girl.” He caressed her newly aching cheek. “From now on, that’s how you address me. Understand?”

She nodded, and he clenched his jaw.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“You need to learn some discipline _,_ Margaux. That’s what we can take from this little phone debacle.” He reached down to the floor beside the bed and grabbed his belt by the buckle, tugging it from the loops on his jeans. Bill folded the strip of leather in a motion that was all too familiar, then brought it up and stroked it along her jaw. Her eyes widened. Her flesh ached from the memory of her last encounter with that awful thing. “Now, darling… I’m sure you don’t want me to use this, do you?”

Margaux shook her head.

“ _What was that?_ ”

“No, sir,” she responded hurriedly.

“It still hurts, doesn’t it?” He squeezed her thigh directly over one yellowing bruise, and she winced.

“Yes, sir.”

“You know I’d be more than justified. You’ve been…” he began to trail the belt down between her breasts, “a very…” over the soft plane of her belly, “bad…” coming to a stop between her thighs, “…girl.” She flinched away from the alien sensation of the cool, stiff leather, and he tapped it sharply against her labia. Margaux yelped. “Haven’t you, Margaux?” His free hand moved up to stroke her face, one fingertip following the curve of her lower lip.

“Please—”

_“Haven’t you?”_

“Y-yes, sir.”

“So you agree that I should punish you?”

“…Yes, sir.”

He laid his forehead against hers. “What do you think I should do to you, Margaux?”

She was silent, her eyes shining with tears. His thumb brushed along her cheekbone.

“You must have some idea, darling. What do you think you _deserve?_ ”

“I… don’t know.”

“ _Sir._ ”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“If you were me, Margaux. What would you do?”

“I _don’t know_!”

“Shh…” He kissed away a tear as it spilled across her cheek. “Don’t cry now, darling. I’ve barely touched you.”

The belt rubbed against her, and for the first time she felt how sore she was. It was as if something had torn. Perhaps it had.

Bill’s eyes were fixed on hers. Unable to bear the intensity of his scrutiny, she looked away, and he frowned. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that there was any hint of compassion in that look. He was silent for a long time, just looking at her. Finally he said:

“Margaux, in my entire life I’ve never seen someone so upset about enjoying something.”

“I didn’t enjoy it.”

“We both know that isn’t true. Why do you persist in telling me such outrageous lies, darling?… Oh, maybe you didn’t at first, but it wasn’t pain you were screaming with ten minutes ago, now was it?”

She didn’t respond.

“Oh, Margaux… I know _exactly_ how to punish you.” He grabbed her wrist and guided her hand down until—

Hard.

He was hard again.

She felt a sinking in her belly. That just wasn’t fair.

“You’re going to do everything you’re told. Without question. Without hesitation. If you don’t, I promise you that the thrashing I’ll give you will make the last time _pale in comparison_. Is that clear?”

She swallowed hard around the apprehensive lump that was growing in her throat. “Yes, sir.”

“From now on, you’re my little toy. I don’t care what time it is or what you’re doing — if I call you, you come running. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered in a quivering whisper.

“Shh, shh…” He brushed her hair out of her face and kissed her trembling mouth. “You’re mine now, Margaux. _All_ mine.” He brought his mouth down close to her ear and whispered: “I hope it was worth it.”

*

She couldn’t bear to look at herself in the bathroom mirror as she turned the faucet to splash cold water on her face.

Robert was laughing at something on the TV in the other room.

She’d seen him as she walked to the bathroom on shaking legs, and he had given her a knowing look that made everything that much worse.

Clean. She so badly wanted to feel clean.

The door swung open behind her as she leaned across the bath tub to turn on the tap.

“What are you doing, Margaux?”

“I was just—”

“ _No._ You weren’t. I didn’t say you could clean yourself up.”

“But I need to wash. Please. It feels…” She trailed off, his expression telling her his mind was very much made up. She took her hand off the faucet and looked down at the tiled floor.

“You can use the loo, Margaux. But if I think you’ve taken any longer in here than is strictly necessary, I’ll come back into that room and _I will fuck you again_. Do you understand?”

She didn’t know how he expected to have the energy to do that, but she was certain he’d manage it just to spite her. Margaux nodded meekly. After a brief silence, Bill turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

She balled up a handful of toilet tissue and mopped desperately at the slick of his semen between her thighs. The smell of musk and sweat was almost overwhelming, and the realisation that she would have to sleep with it on her skin triggered a wave of nausea that built until suddenly she was leaning over the toilet, holding back her own hair as she gagged and coughed.

Margaux didn’t know why it surprised her that Bill had been the one to do it. He had just seemed so…

No. What had she been expecting? Some kind of unlikely friendship? Sympathy? This wasn’t a fucking movie. There was no hero, only perhaps a lesser villain… The only question now was which of them that was.


	27. Sleep Deprivation

“How’s your ankle?”

“…It’s fine.”

Margaux didn’t look up from her tea. The chair creaked under Robert’s weight as he sat down opposite her.

“No pain?”

“No.”

“Get us a coffee, then.”

She nodded mutely and got up, walking to the kettle and standing with her back to him as it boiled.

“You got me in a lot of trouble last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

She exhaled softly, turning over one of the chipped white mugs on the draining board and tipping coffee granules into it.

“…No. I guess I’m not.”

“I told Bill from the beginning we should have kept a closer eye on you.”

“Looks as though you were right, then, doesn’t it?”

She hadn’t the energy to point out that he could have been watching her, but had chosen not to. Margaux turned to cross the kitchen for the milk, and for the first time caught sight of Robert’s face.

“…Is it broken?”

“The nose? Nah.”

“You look terrible.”

“Man throws a solid punch.”

“I can imagine.”

An awkward silence fell on the room. It took Margaux a heartbeat to remember herself and return to fetching the milk.

“For the record… I am sorry about that part.”

She set the coffee on the table in front of him, turning the handle towards his right hand.

“Thanks.” As she returned to her seat, he fixed her with a long look. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too.”

Margaux felt heat rising in her face and looked back down at her tea. She didn’t vocalise the thoughts that rose unbidden of the man’s hypocrisy, the sheer nerve he must have. Instead she murmured a despondent:

“Thanks.”

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

No. Of course she hadn’t. The blanket, the sheet, her pillow — everything stank of sweat and sex and _him_. She couldn’t stand it. She’d spent the night sitting at this table.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not looking so radiant yourself.”

“Thank you so much.”

Another long look that made her shift uncomfortably. She wanted to leave, but suspected he would only call her back.

“You haven’t had a bath. I’d’ve thought that would be the first thing you did.”

“…I wasn’t allowed.”

“Ah.”

Her face was flushing so hot that she could feel her pulse thumping in her temples. She wondered how red she must look. Whether her eyes were as bloodshot as they felt.

“Bill’s in the bedroom.”

“And?”

“Give him an hour to fall asleep, and you can have your bath.”

“…I don’t want to make him angry.”

“Love, I don’t give a fuck if he’s angry. I don’t want you stinking of another man’s come.”

_Oh._

Margaux bit the inside of her cheek.

“You know for a moment there, I almost thought you were exhibiting a shred of decency.”

Robert reached across the table and patted her cheek, grinning.

_“You’re welcome.”_

*

She jumped at a knock on the door, hurriedly pulling a towel around herself and shutting off the bath faucet.

“…Yes?”

_Please don’t be Bill please don’t be Bill please—_

“Margaux?”

Robert. It was Robert. She put a hand to her chest and felt her heart pounding.

“What is it?”

“Open the door.”

His conspiratorial half-whisper put her off-guard, and she was pulling the bolt before she fully registered what she was doing. By the time she realised the sheer madness of letting him in, it was far too late.

“Why was the door locked?”

“Sorry… Sorry, I forgot.” Her knuckles were white, her hand gripping compulsively at the point where her towel tucked into itself over her chest.

“Sleep deprivation will do that to you.” He glanced down at the few centimetres of water in the bath. “You should finish filling that before it gets cold.”

She swallowed nervously.

“What do you want?”

“I thought you’d like some company.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Robert closed the bathroom door and drew the bolt back into place.

“Tough.”

He noted her expression and frowned.

“Don’t look at me like that, love. I’m not gonna touch you.”

“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take your word for it.”

He pulled the varnished wooden lid down over the toilet seat and sat down. “You can consider this a day off, love.”

“So you’re just going to sit there and watch.”

“D’you have a problem with that?”

She was silent. What good was it, arguing with either of them?

After a moment she leaned over the bath and turned the tap back on. Robert grinned.

Margaux untucked the corner of her towel, then hesitated. She heard the man behind her scoff:

“What? You think if you’re naked I won’t be able to control myself? _Please._ Give me _some_ credit.”

“It isn’t just that. I still think—”

“If you mention Bill one more time, love, I’m not going to be a happy bunny. Just do what you’re told, alright?”

She nodded, and stepped into the water, sitting on the edge of the tub in her towel as the tap roared.

“You’re not as afraid of me as you are of Bill. Why?”

She didn’t turn around to respond:

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to talk about him.”

“Ah. The reappearance of the smart mouth. I was wondering how long it would be. Answer the question, sweetheart, or I’ll show you how you can put that smart mouth to better use. Alright?”

“…I never said I was any more scared of him than you,” she said finally, trying not to think about the threat that now hung between them.

“But it’s obvious you are. So why?”

“…Because Bill is crazy.”

“I might be crazy.”

“I doubt it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re opportunistic. And mean. But you’re not crazy.”

“Right. And that means I don’t scare you, does it?”

“Do you want me to be scared of you?”

“I’m a big man with a gun and the desire to fuck you. I think you ought to be.”

Margaux looked down at the water lapping around her calves.

She could practically feel his ego inflating. She knew he was smirking without needing to look at him. This was nothing to do with wanting her. It barely had anything to do with her at all. This was about Bill, and him, and the constant pissing contest they seemed to have going on. She couldn’t imagine what it was that made them compete so intensely. She didn’t want to know, either. She would just rather not have been stuck in the middle.


	28. Strange Comforts

It was almost noon when a door in the hallway slammed, announcing Bill’s awakening. Margaux stood when she heard his footsteps moving towards the kitchen; she crossed to the counter and began to fill the kettle. 

She saw Bill in her peripheral vision as she put it back on its base, pressing down the little plastic tongue to set it rumbling.

“Is it too late to say good morning?”

Margaux didn’t turn to look at the clock on the wall. It was an obvious ploy. She didn’t want to look at him.

“I think you still have a couple of minutes.”

“Great.”

He moved behind her. His hand brushed up her side, and she didn’t acknowledge it.

He swept her damp hair over her shoulder, exposing the back of her neck. His touch followed the bumps of her vertebrae down her back.

“I took a bath.” Her voice came out small and nervous. “I know you said not to but I—”

“It’s fine.”

“But you _said_ …” She trailed off, uncertain of why she should want to talk him into being angry with her.

“I don’t care.”

He was tracing the scrolling vines on her back with his fingertips, following them through the bright drifts of foliage that covered her shoulder blade. Margaux bit the inside of her cheek and reached for an empty mug.

“Tea?”

“Thanks.”

Margaux went through the ritual of preparing the drink, doing her best not to react to the overfamiliarity of his wandering touch. She dearly wished for something to distract him.

“It’s a big day for you today, Margaux.”

“I suppose it is.”

His hands found her hips, grasping her yielding flesh through her skirt, and she almost dropped the kettle.

“Are you worried?”

She didn’t answer.

“There’s no shame in that. It means you understand what’s at stake. You should be worried.”

“I suppose that’s just as well, then, isn’t it?” Bill laughed, and she realised with some confusion that he was humouring her. “Here.” She fished the teabag out of the mug and pulled away from Bill, towards the bin. He let her go.

“Thanks.” He took the mug and sat down at the table. Margaux opted to lean back against the counter, as far from him as possible. “I take it you didn’t sleep last night.”

“…No.”

“That’s a shame. It’s going to be a long day.” He lifted the cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. “Although there’s nothing to stop you from napping, of course.”

“I guess not.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m starving.”

“Do you… want me to make something?” she asked, when he stayed seated. He shook his head.

“Let me finish this. I need to get some caffeine in me.”

“Do you want me to…”

He looked at her over the rim of his cup. “What?”

“…I don’t know.”

Margaux folded her arms over her stomach and looked down at the flagstones. Bill stared at her for a long moment before returning to his waking ritual of tea and thoughtful silence.

After a while Margaux turned and looked out the window at the rain. She leaned on the counter, resting her chin on her palm.

“I feel as if it’s been raining forever,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

“It was raining all night. It should be over by three.”

“You think so?”

“It can’t rain forever, Margaux.”

“No. I don’t suppose it can.”

She noted the way the spiny boughs of gorse nodded beneath the weight of the fat raindrops, the gurgle of the water as it churned down the guttering. She was sure that in another context she could appreciate the beauty of what she was seeing, but as it was the rain seemed to take on a kind of malevolence, trapping her inside this nineteen-seventies nightmare of a cottage.

“Do you think we’ll have any sun afterwards?”

Behind her, Bill’s mug met the table top with a ceramic thud. “I think we’re probably due some.”

“Probably. Do you think—” She bit her lip, wondering if it was wise to ask the question. She wouldn’t lose anything by it. “Do you think I might be allowed outside to see it?”

“That depends on you.” His voice spoke from directly behind her, and at the touch of his hand on her shoulder she let out an involuntary cry and flinched violently away. Why would you sneak up on a person like that?

She moved to slip out from between Bill and the counter, but found her progress halted by his hand gripping the counter’s edge. She moved the other way and found the same.

“What’s wrong, Margaux?” His breath was warm on her back.

“Let me out.”

“You didn’t even say please, Margaux.”

“ _Please_.”

“No.” He leaned down and kissed her shoulder. The gesture summoned the memory of his ragged breath on her skin, his long-fingered hands with their deliciously painful grasp on her hips, her sudden cry of pleasure lost in the pillow.

“Not here. Please.”

He laughed.

“Don’t worry, darling. There’s no time for that today. We have to be ready if dear David calls, don’t we?” His lips brushed over a sensitive spot behind her ear, and her skin prickled. “I suppose there’s always the possibility of a quickie, but I’d rather take my time with you.” His hand moved down her bare arm. “You’re not wearing a cardigan today.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

_Because covering up was supposed to put you off, and that clearly hasn’t worked._

“Just because.”

“I like it. You should leave it off more often.”

“Alright,” she murmured passively.

He frowned.

“I feel as if you’ve lost some of your fight, Margaux. I wouldn’t like to think you were that easy to break.”

She didn’t respond.

He stepped back a little and turned her around with a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t look up at him until his fingers curled beneath her chin forced the issue.

“You look exhausted.”

She shrugged.

“Alright. Breakfast can wait. Come with me.”

He started towards the hall door. When she didn’t follow, he grasped her wrist and pulled.

As they passed the airing cupboard, Margaux stopped, and Bill turned to give her an expectant look.

“Just — one second. Please.” 

She opened the cupboard door with her free hand and started the washing machine. Inside, water began to froth against the inverted window in the door, soaking the bedding crumpled inside in the drum. Her bedding. When she turned back towards him, she caught his questioning look.

“I didn’t want to start it until you were up.”

He tilted his head at her in a way that was vaguely animalistic. A request for elaboration.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

He laughed, then continued down the hall, tugging at her wrist. She followed. Not that there was any alternative.

He led her into the sitting room.

“Alright,” he said, taking his usual seat and moving the TV remote within reach. He spread one arm out across the back of the sofa. “Come here.” She sat beside him in obedient silence. Waiting. He looked at her for a moment, then sat forward. “Actually. No…” 

He turned, and pulled his legs up under him, crouching in his seat for a moment before he slid them out behind her on the sofa. Margaux shifted forward to make room, not bothering to hide her confused frown. Now sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, his prodigious height easily occupying the entire sofa, he looked at her and patted one lean thigh.

“Come here, Margaux.”

“…I’m not sure I follow.”

“Don’t be difficult. You’re too tired and I’m not a patient man.” He shifted again until he was lying down, casually crossing his ankles. His legs were too long for the furniture now, projecting off the end and almost touching the wall of the small room. He threw one arm out behind his head as a makeshift pillow. “Come here.”

“…My hair is wet.” 

“Your point being what?”

“It won’t be very comfortable.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Your shirt will get soaked.”

“It’s fine.”

“But—”

“Do I have to drag you down here?”

She frowned at him and muttered a petulant _“No.”_

He stared at her expectantly, the hint of a laugh playing across his features. Eventually she moved, turning to crawl onto the sofa and over him, gingerly kneeling to either side of his thighs.

“Now what?”

“Now you lie down.”

“And if I don’t want to…?”

His free hand slid up her side, playing with the hem of her camisole. “You’re a grouchy little thing when you’re tired, aren’t you?” Bill moved the arm from behind his head and placed his hand on her waist. “Lie down, Margaux.” He pushed down on her hip, forcing her to sit straddling his thighs. “See that’s a start. Now be a good girl and lean forward.”

She resisted the urge to scowl at him. His current mood was strange, but it was pleasant enough. There was no sense in putting him in a foul mood for the sake of her pride. She shifted her legs back, moving her weight onto her hands, and tentatively lay down, moving where his hands directed her until their legs were intertwined and her head lay on his chest.

“Isn’t that better?”

She made a noncommittal noise. Bill laughed and pushed a damp lock out hair out of her face. He picked up the remote and flicked on the television, turning down the volume before he started channel surfing.

Margaux was uncertain of what to do. Her left hand was curled into a fist, wedged between Bill’s body and the coarse fabric of the sofa cushion. What was it made out of anyway? The stuff they made carpet bags out of? Was that actually carpet? If she’d had access to the Internet she would have looked that up. At any rate it was horrible, rough material, and not at all pleasant to be pinned against. For the sake of comfort she wanted to uncurl her fingers, but doing so would lay her hand against Bill’s ribcage, and she wasn’t sure about that. In the end, he made a decision for her, shifting uncomfortably.

“Is that your hand?” She raised her cheek from his chest and looked at him. “Move it, would you?”

Well, at least if he asked it wasn’t the same as choosing to do it on her own. She laid her fingers against his torso, the fabric of his shirt so much softer against her skin. Margaux put her head back on his chest, unconsciously rubbing her cheek against him. He curled an arm around her waist, and his fingers closed around a loose fistful of her camisole.

 _God_ , but her head felt so heavy all of a sudden. Not to mention her eyelids… And he was so warm…

Margaux jolted awake. She noted, not without embarrassment, the way her right hand was lying on Bill’s upper arm.

“Did I…?”

“Two minutes. That’s all. It’s okay, Margaux — go to sleep.”

“If…” She yawned. “If David calls?”

He was drawing slow circles on her shoulder with one fingertip.

“I’ll wake you. Cross my blackened heart.”

A smile played across her lips.

“I don’t understand you,” came her somnolent murmur. Then all was comfortable darkness.


	29. Thought and Memory

The girl was talking in her sleep. Not loudly or clearly enough to make out, but talking, nonetheless. There was a kind of sweetness in that, a vulnerability Bill could appreciate. He ran a hand down the curve of her back and watched her expression as she shifted beneath his touch. He wondered how her brain was interpreting the feeling — whether he had altered her dream. He liked the idea of that.

She exhaled softly, and her hand slid up his chest, moving over his body in a way she would never dare to while she was awake. He felt his nipple hardening against her palm, quickly accompanied by a stiffening against her thigh, and pushed it from his mind. _Let her sleep._

There was a satisfaction in having her like this — seeing her completely open. Never mind last night, _this_ was true nakedness. If he chose to, he could do anything to her. That he had no inclination to do so was a source of some confusion for him — it seemed to represent something within himself that he wasn’t familiar with, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

It had been a good fuck. That was all. He’d tasted what she had to offer and liked it, and now he was loathe to do anything that could get in the way of tasting it again. Perfectly logical.

Except when he looked down at her that didn’t feel completely true.

Her hand moved over his shoulder and it throbbed beneath the fabric of his shirt, where her teeth marks crowded over his skin. He had examined them, when he woke up, in the bathroom mirror — several were wreathed with deep, florid bruises, where those sharp little teeth had almost broken through, almost drawn blood. He smiled, thinking of the ones he had left her in turn. One stood out beneath her damp hair, an oval of indentations on the back of her neck.

A good fuck. A _damn_ good fuck. That was all.

Margaux whispered something nonsensical. With the whisper came a rolling and shifting of her hips, and his resolve to let her sleep faltered. He wondered what it would be like to have her on this sofa, the rough fabric leaving pink friction burns on her pale flesh as she whimpered and moaned and despised him and begged for more. 

But no. There would be plenty of time to find out. For now let her sleep.

*

“I’m not an expert, but I’m not sure sitting alone in the kitchen is standard party behaviour.”

Margaux smiled down at her notebook. “For me it is.”

Joe laughed and sat down opposite her. 

“What are you writing?”

“Oh, just…” She saw him tilt his head to read her small, cramped-together notes, arranged in boxes across the page, and reflexively covered the page with a shy laugh. “It’s nothing at this stage. Just scribbles. Little scenes and, um… stuff.”

“Do you write a lot?”

“Only when it’s massively inconvenient. And or antisocial.” She drew a slash in the air with one hand.

“A victim of the old selective writer’s block, huh?”

“All too often, yes.”

“Then I guess I can’t hold it against you for, uh, striking while the iron is hot.” He laughed, a little awkwardly. She wasn’t surprised. She could be awkward to talk to.

“I appreciate it.”

She looked up at Joe and smiled. His features swam before her eyes and she realised that she was dreaming. This was just a memory, albeit one skewed by random interjections of the surreal. It did explain the overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

“What are you drinking?”

As she answered, they were in the garden, surrounded by kitsch tiki lamps stuck in the ground. She had a glass of wine in her hand.

Joe was talking. She remembered that the conversation had been about his nephews — they liked her books, while he himself had never read them, he was ashamed to admit (a fact that didn’t surprise Margaux in the least) — but as he spoke his words were just white noise. Utter static. After a while she wasn’t even sure his lips were moving.

It didn’t matter.

The next thing she was aware of was the two of them sitting at a metal bistro table on the patio, playing Truth with shots of sambuca — then, when they ran out, vodka. 

She told Joe about a wildly embarrassing time her mother had walked in on her rolling around with a boy when she was seventeen. He told her about a time he’d had his clothes stolen by a one night stand’s friend and had to take the bus home in her skinny jeans and Tweetie Pie t-shirt. 

It wasn’t long before they were trying to out-filth each other with Have You Evers. 

Margaux won. Joe hotly contested her victory and resorted to outrageous lies. They laughed until Joe was doubled over with cramps. Both of their eyes streamed with tears. From a window somewhere above them, someone was hissing at them to go to bed.

Then they were stumbling around the darkened house, giggling and trying not to wake those who had seen fit to go to sleep hours ago. They found a single bed in a box room and crawled in together, neither of them bothering with their clothes. Joe was whispering something about how her hair smelled. Margaux giggled blearily and told him to shut up. They fell asleep wrapped around each other.

Margaux was still wearing her shoes.

*

This experiment in intimacy was all well and good, but he needed a piss.

Bill rolled onto his side, cradling Margaux’s head. She clung to his shirt a little, but let go as he pulled away. He looked down at her for a long moment before he turned and headed for the bathroom.

Rob had made himself scarce at some point. Bill didn’t know where he was — didn’t care, particularly. Ordinarily someone wandering off during a job would be enough to arouse one of his more violent moods, but he’d decided that Robert’s absence was likely for the best; he wasn’t certain that if he saw him in the next few hours he wouldn’t still feel driven to knock a few of the negligent cunt’s teeth out.

Christ, but it was difficult to piss with an erection.

He braced one hand against the cool, gloss-painted wall behind the cistern and exhaled slowly. _Think cold thoughts, mate. Cold thoughts._

When he walked back into the sitting room Margaux had rolled to face the back of the sofa, her camisole riding up to show the almost triangular birthmark on her spine. There wasn’t room to sit.

He crouched beside her, smirking, his eyes following the curve of her hip.

_Ten million pounds._

The smirk became a grin.

In his mind he was dividing that sleeping form like the carcass of a lamb, calculating what each part of her would fetch him. His thoughts tended towards clean fractions, but he couldn’t help but assign value, altering figures as he went — five thousand for each deep copper lock of hair, curling and forming soft waves as it dried; one — no — two-hundred thousand for that small, soft cupid’s bow, for the occasional smiles that rose unbidden and betrayed her; five-hundred thousand for each soft breast, and for the sound she made when he took them in his hands and squeezed until she struggled to be free; the same for each small, pretty hand; no less than a million for her sweet, responsive cunt — perhaps two.

She shifted onto her back and her top was caught beneath her, baring her midriff. Bill reached out and pulled the fabric back over her flesh, but left his hand on her stomach. He slid it up over her chest and laid his long fingers over her heart, feeling it beating against them. Like a little bird in a cage.

He was bored. Short of minding his hostage there was nothing to occupy his mind in this house. Any sympathy for her evident fatigue was rapidly losing to the sense of wanting to play with his new toy.

“Margaux?”

“Mm?”

“Margaux, are you awake?”

She grumbled sleepily and turned away from his touch. She didn’t open her eyes.

“Margaux, aren’t you hungry?”

“Mm—?” 

“Do you want something to eat?”

Still lost in a dream, she slurred sleepily: “S’too early, Joe. Come back to bed…”

His grin faded.

He exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. Bill got to his feet and turned his back on the sleeping woman.

If he stayed, he was going to hurt her.


	30. Cold Steel and the Ticking Clock

The rain had stopped.

Margaux rolled onto her back and regretted it; the heat she’d been holding against her belly was dissipating, replaced with a harsh chill that seemed to cut. It was almost like…

She sat up. There was a freshness that came with the cold, as if there was a draught coming from somewhere.

Bill was gone.

Margaux got to her feet and stretched a little, working out the stiffness in her back. She did feel a little better, at least, for having slept. Her stomach growled softly, and as she walked out into the hall, smoothing her skirt, she wondered what time it was. It felt late. Evening. What sleep schedule she could have been said to have at this point would almost certainly be thrown off.

The cold was more noticeable out here, the draught more evident the closer she got to the kitchen. The cause became clear as she reached the end of the hallway: the front door was wide open, creaking a little as it swayed on its hinges in the wind. She could see the van parked outside, its wheels surrounded with black puddles.

She wasn’t stupid, nor was she looking for further disappointment; approaching the door, Margaux knew better than to even dream that this might be the chance she’d been waiting for.

Her assessment was confirmed almost immediately. She heard the rumble and slam of the van’s side door, and a moment later Bill was rounding the bonnet, walking across the dark mud back up to the cottage. A black kit bag swung heavily from one hand. He noticed her, now standing on the doorstep, and stopped.

“Were you thinking of making a run for it?”

She shook her head slowly. He looked down at her socks and smirked.

“Shame. I could use a laugh. Are you sure?”

“I’ve got no immediate plans.”

The strange, unwelcome affection of this morning had been replaced with a savage indifference. She wasn’t sure it was an improvement. Margaux was getting better each day at gauging her kidnapper’s moods, and he seemed to have been brewing a dark one.

 _Well_ , she thought, stepping out of his way as he reached the door, _at least it wasn’t something I did._

Bill threw the bag on the floor and something inside clattered against the flagstones through the canvas.

“Close the door, Margaux.”

She obeyed silently, wary of his position in the room as she turned her back on him. When she turned back he was leaning against the table, watching her. Silent. A silence she felt the sudden need to fill.

“H-have—” She cleared her throat. “Have you eaten already?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to—”

“Margaux, you keep forgetting one little word.” It took her a beat to realise what he meant. “I don’t have to remind you what that word is, do I?”

“No, sir.”

“…Good girl.”

Silence again.

“So, um… I could make something if you’re hungry.”

_“Sir.”_

“Sir.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know what we have. Sir. But I think I could throw together a curry. Or something.”

“A little ambitious for a cupboard meal, don’t you think?”

“Not especially.”

She crossed to the cupboards along the wall beside the fridge and opened one, keeping half an eye on Bill. He looked like a predator waiting to pick her off from a herd, watching for any mistake, any lapse in concentration. Except that his motivation in this instance seemed to be not hunger but sheer, poisonous spite. He wanted to hurt her. She wished she could understand why.

A look through the eclectic selection of cans in the cupboards yielded mixed results, but there was enough to throw together something edible. What chickpeas and tinned spinach lacked in wow factor could always be made up for by the comically overstocked spice cupboard.

“I think I can work with this.” She turned and met an expression that was almost a glare. “If you want me to. Sir.”

“Do what you want. I don’t care.”

She swallowed nervously.

“Do you think I could use a proper knife? Just for a few minutes?”

“Do I look like a fucking mug to you?”

His tone made her flinch, and she looked down at the floor.

“No. I’m sorry.”

She could feel him staring, It was like a creeping prickle on her skin.

Finally he said:

“I’ll do it. What wants cutting?”

*

After he’d rinsed the scraps of onion off the kitchen knife, Bill stood by the sink, watching her stir the pot on the hob. His fingertip trailed back and forth along the knife’s edge. Margaux pretended not to notice.

“You haven’t mentioned David since you woke up.”

Margaux looked down at the onions and wondered if she should add more oil.

“Should I have?”

“I would have thought, all things considered, that it would be weighing on your mind.”

“…It is.” She thought of the threat Bill had made to David. She thought of the knife in his hand. “But talking about things won’t make them happen. Will it?”

Margaux looked across at Bill, leaning against the sink. He was no longer scowling.

“No. It won’t.”

She turned down the heat on the hob and realised that there was no garlic, no ginger. Margaux frowned. There were powders, but it was hardly the same thing.

“All the same, Margaux… We’re coming up to that time. It’s already past six. If David doesn’t call, you know I’ll have to make good on my promise.”

Margaux didn’t answer, but the thought made her feel cold and sick. Bill saw her expression change and moved closer. She saw the knife still held in his right hand and tensed. As she opened the tinned vegetables she was painfully aware of every tiny movement the man beside her made. 

She didn’t like the way he was looking down at her. Not one bit. 

He wouldn’t do it now. Would he? No. He couldn’t. There was still hours left of the day. She still had time. Only when he played absently with the blade, the steel glinting in the light as it turned, she didn’t feel especially confident. He wasn’t a patient man. He’d said so himself. And he was looking to hurt her, for whatever reason. Reason hardly came into it.

“I need to drain these,” she said quietly. He stepped back without a word, just enough to let her pass. When she returned to the hob with the drained tins, he moved behind her. She felt a tingle in her scalp and realised that he was playing with her hair.

While she tried to keep her mind on what she was adding to the pot, she couldn’t help thinking about the knife. She imagined him raising it to her throat, drawing the cold steel across her skin just to watch the blood flow. He wouldn’t kill her, but then there was a great deal she could live through. And she was sure he’d considered his options at length.

The tingle in her scalp localised, grew, and became a gentle tugging. Then it was gone.

“When Rob gets back, if David hasn’t called, we’ll need to make a decision.”

“…Alright.”

“Are you going to need this knife again?”

“No.” She felt him move away from her back. 

It was with no small relief that she heard him cross the flagstones and start down the hall. 

She waited until a door slammed, then raised a tentative hand to the back of her head, to the spot where the tingling had been. Margaux ran her fingers through her hair and felt an unexpected tickling against her fingertips. 

When she moved back and felt it again she found a slender lock of hair that was conspicuously shorter than the others.


	31. Cold Steel and the Ticking Clock, pt II

“This is actually good,” Bill said through a mouthful. Margaux forced a smile.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

He had come back shortly after his abrupt departure, blessedly knifeless, and — another blessing — he had merely sat down at the table and watched her cook.

Margaux mixed her curry into her rice and took a forkful, blowing on it before she ate. The garlic powder wasn’t so bad, she supposed.

Bill seemed to be in a slightly better mood. She didn’t know what satisfaction he could possibly derive from taking a lock of her hair — some symbolic act of violence, she supposed — but if it improved his behaviour then he was welcome to it. It was more than a little abnormal, but really — what about their situation wasn’t? Her concept of normality was by necessity being readjusted every day. It was the only way she’d stay sane.

From somewhere in the back of her mind came a warning, a reminder that his moods could not be predicted or depended upon; especially, it seemed, today. Soon the satisfaction of taking that small sacrifice from her would fade. He would need to be kept sweet.

“If…”

He looked up from his plate. She registered a look of mild annoyance beneath his deliberately blank expression. She swallowed her mouthful.

“If I was making it again, how would you want it?”

“Planning on doing a lot of cooking, are you?” he asked through another mouthful, with what seemed like forced disinterest. Almost as if he was still just angry enough that he felt he had to make a point.

“I’d like to be useful,” she said quietly. In her mind she was visualising approaching an ill-tempered dog.

Bill nodded, chewing thoughtfully.

“It could be hotter,” he said at last.

“Boiling hot or vindaloo hot?”

“Let’s not go full vindaloo, darling. I’m not mental.”

_On that one we’ll have to agree to disagree._ “Okay.”

“And some meat wouldn’t go amiss.”

“If you buy it, I’ll cook it.”

He pointed his fork at her. “Deal.” Bill grinned lopsidedly at her, baring his teeth as he chewed. It made him look like a younger man. “This wouldn’t be the beginnings of a plan to poison me?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that. Robert would have my head.”

“I admire your honesty, Margaux.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t say you wouldn’t like to.”

*

Time was not behaving as it should have.

Margaux had stared at the clock on the kitchen wall, waiting for the second hand to move, until her exasperation drove her gaze up to the cracks in the low ceiling. The next time she glanced at it she had somehow lost half an hour.

She had to escape it, to get out from under that indifferent, portentous face. Margaux got up and headed out into the hallway.

Going into the sitting room would take her back into Bill’s presence. She’d been relieved when he had finished his food and left. Was that really what she wanted?

She considered going to her room — _no, not her room, just the room she slept in_ — but she didn’t want to be alone. Not now. Not even if the alternative was him. Had the options been solitude or Robert, she was less sure of which she would have chosen; she could admit that, much as part of her cringed to think of the implications.

Margaux hesitated in the sitting room doorway, watching Bill stare down at the laptop screen. The pale blue of his irises, eerily illuminated by the backlit screen, made the movement of his pupils easy to track, and she watched them flit left and right as he read.

Bill didn’t react as she walked in, didn’t look up, but the stiff set of his shoulders said that he was aware of her.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

He pointed, without looking at her, at the floor beside his foot. The meaning was clear enough. 

She frowned.

_Still better than sitting alone. This is the wrong time to be proud, you silly bitch._

Margaux moved to the spot, between the sofa and the coffee table, and sat down on the thin, age-stained carpet. He tapped a magazine against her shoulder and she took it. It was the one he’d been reading yesterday — the cultural supplement to a paper. National, not local. She wondered absently where the actual newspaper was. Whether there was something in it she wasn’t allowed to see.

The laptop’s mouse clicked in the silence. Margaux stared at the cover of the magazine without taking in a word of the titles splashed across it, too fixated on the relentless trickling away of the seconds to think clearly. It was building in her chest, in the hollow of her throat, this feeling of panic and hopelessness, like water rushing into an oubliette. She could fight and tread water all she liked, but soon enough it would reach the top, and she would drown. She wasn’t sure she could keep her resolution to stay calm.

Minutes passed.

Margaux whimpered softly and laid her temple against Bill’s knee.

How she _hated him._

She hated Bill; she hated Robert; she hated David and, yes, even Joe, because damn it, David must have told him. Mustn’t he? And yet here she was. Still. Finally, she hated herself, and that was a hatred that made the others look like petty discontent. For going home alone that night instead of going to the party with Joe and Lila; for not having a better escape plan; for not running faster; for not fighting harder; but most of all, for being powerless, and for not knowing how to _make it stop._

Oblivious to her thought process, Bill smiled to himself and stroked the back of her head. Like a dog. Margaux felt a surge of rage, like magnesium catching and flaring white-hot, but like burning magnesium it was over as quickly as it began. She hadn’t the energy to be afraid and indignant at the same time.

Margaux flipped open the magazine and stared at the blocks of text, willing them to make sense.


	32. Cold Steel and the Ticking Clock, pt III

For a long minute there was no tapping of the keyboard, no clicking of the mouse. Margaux felt an uncertain prickle on the back of her neck and instinctively turned her head.

Bill was looking down at her with a slight frown.

“…What?”

“You might prefer not to know.”

“That’s really the worst possible thing you could have said.”

“Because now you have to know?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

“…Please tell me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I was working out what we’ll have to cut off,” he answered abruptly. Margaux stared at him.

“…You’re right,” she said at last, looking back down at the magazine. “I didn’t want to know that.”

“You asked.”

“I know. It’s my own fault. I think part of me knew what you were going to say anyway.”

“You know it has to happen. We’ve talked about this.”

“Yes. We have. I’m not sure I really believed it was _going_ to happen, though.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“I know.”

Bill set the laptop on the seat beside him and leaned forward, sliding a hand over her shoulder. She tensed up, his touch sending hot, unwelcome electricity straight through her.

“I think we need to discuss it.”

“…What is there to discuss?”

“You could tell me what you’re least averse to losing. That would be a start.”

“ _Least averse?_ ” Her mouth felt dry. There was a trembling at the back of her throat and suddenly she was afraid she might be sick.

“You must have a least-favourite toe.”

She looked up at him, flinching back when he was closer than she’d expected. “Is that supposed to be _funny?_ ”

He smirked.

“I’m only half joking. If there’s something you really don’t want to lose then I suggest offering an alternative. Before the decision’s made for you.”

“What would you say?”

“I’m sorry?”

“If someone asked you the same question.”

“Outer ear,” he said, without the briefest pause. 

Margaux compulsively put a hand to her own ear, feeling the curving shell of cartilage and skin. The thought of someone taking a knife to it… _God, there would be so much blood…_

“Then the fingers of my left hand. Working in from the little finger.”

She swallowed compulsively, feeling a little dizzy.

“That’s very practical of you.”

“I’d suggest a similar approach in your case.”

“I d—” A lump was growing in her throat. “I don’t much fancy the Van Gogh look, I’m afraid.”

“You’d prefer to go straight for the fingers, then?”

“ _Not especially._ ” She was trying to beat back the desperate tone that was creeping into her voice, but it wasn’t doing much good. “Can’t you start with my hair?” She grasped a thick lock of it to emphasise her point. Bill took it and stroked the loose curl thoughtfully between his forefinger and thumb. “Wouldn’t that be a startling enough thing to get in the post?”

“No, Margaux,” he said, with gentle condescension. He let go of her hair and slid his fingers back to curl around at the nape of her neck. “We can’t just take your hair. What kind of a message would that send?”

“ _Please…_ ” Margaux turned her body towards him and moved up onto her knees. Her hand rested on his thigh. It took her a heartbeat to realise that she’d done it. “You don’t have to do this. _You don’t_. Think of the court case. You could get twenty years for adding grievous bodily harm to kidnapping and false imprisonment. Is that really what you want? To lose two decades of your life, just like that? I — I could testify that you’d shown mercy — not used undue violence—”

“Margaux.” He pressed a fingertip to her lips, dropping it when she fell silent. “This is never going to reach the inside of a courtroom. We both know that.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide and pleading, their bright, oceanic blue made startling by the redness around them.

“ _Please…?_ ” Her voice was barely above a whisper. 

Bill was silent. His knowing half-smile had faded, replaced with a searching look, a slight frown and a drawing together of his pale eyebrows. With a shy, tentative movement that stopped and started, Margaux moved up and closed the gap between them, pausing just before her trembling lips met his slightly open mouth. He didn’t move, save for the barely-perceptible shifting of his grip on her neck. She closed the last minuscule distance —  a matter of millimetres, in which crackled the warm static of anticipation — and flesh met flesh. She tasted salt and saliva and garlic, and her hand slid up his thigh almost of its own accord. Bill’s hand at the back of her neck was warm, the movement of his fingers echoing the gentle pressure of his lips. He didn’t move into her or pull her closer, as if he expected her to startle and run if he did. She brought a hand up to his cheek, her nervous fingertips following the curve of the hinge of his jaw, her thumb rubbing over his rough, reddish-blond stubble.

Had someone asked her what she thought she was doing, Margaux wasn’t sure she could answer them. Did she think she could somehow inspire mercy? Did she really think he could be manipulated so easily? Had she just wanted to shut him up, to silence the unfortunate truth? Or was this something far worse?

His other hand brushed against her waist, hesitant and oddly gentle. She got the sudden, distinct impression that Bill Callas was not accustomed to being kissed. She could admit to feeling some small satisfaction at having him, for once, on the back foot, waiting for her to act. She took the initiative for him, grabbing his wrist and pressing his hand against her breast, drawing back from his lips just long enough to meet his eye. That seemed to bring him back to earth. When her lips met his again he surged into the kiss with unreserved ferocity, and Margaux felt that strange, heavy heat beginning to build in her throat, in her chest. This time she welcomed it, letting it drive her to tangle her fingers in his hair, to grasp a handful of his shirt and move into his touch as his fingers kneaded at her breast, meeting the rough insistence of his mouth with a hunger and desperation she hadn’t known was there. 

The hand at the back of her neck dropped, sliding down over her bare shoulder, caressing the warm inward curve of her waist down to her hip, where his fingers grasped and urged her upward. She resisted, sliding her hand backward from its grip on his shirt, down his arm, to tap his wrist. That way lay straddling his lap, and the eventual agony of penetration. Too soon. Not yet. She met his frown with a shy, reassuring smile and moved her hand back up his thigh, curving abruptly inwards to stroke nervous fingertips across his groin.

Realisation dawned.

Bill leaned back and watched her fingers work at the buttons of his fly. When the last one gave, she pulled gently at the denim, baring a wide triangle. Margaux brushed his shirt aside and slid her fingers up the dark blue cotton of his underwear, feeling the vague prickle of pubic hair and that hot, turgid column of flesh beneath the fabric. When her thumb passed over the deep ridge at the head of his cock, his hips jerked upward of their own volition. Margaux suppressed a laugh. She let her touch stray over the point where the ridge curved, following the narrow bridge of nerves and skin back down to the shaft. She gripped him gently then, laying her head against his belly and teasing him with an almost imperceptible movement up and down, squeezing and releasing until he groaned softly, letting his head fall back. She kissed him through the fabric of his shirt, trailing her mouth down, parallel to the line of buttons, matching the pace with her hand, stroking slowly up and down until his erection strained against his boxers. Finally her lips reached the indent of his navel, brushing over his warm, bare skin and the coarse line of dark blond hair, and she brought her fingers to a halt over the waistband of his underwear, letting him ache and pulse, his breath quickening with anticipation, before she grasped the thick black elastic and pulled it down.


	33. Cold Steel and the Ticking Clock, pt IV

Bill lifted his hips a little, giving her room to tug at the combined obstacle of his boxers and jeans.

When his erection sprang free, there was a moment of strange, total stillness. Her eyes strayed upward and met his, and he looked down at her with a half-lidded gaze, his lips parted. The closest he’d ever get to begging. A slow, confident smile turned up the corners of her mouth. She dipped her head and planted a kiss on his bare hip. The softer flesh of his thigh. The base of his cock, where she felt his pulse tick against her bottom lip. Margaux slid a finger to either side of him, angling his erection upward. She tilted her head and trailed her kisses up his shaft, back down, failing to suppress a giggle at the way it twitched with each touch from her lips. She followed the same path with the tip of her tongue, fluttering across the thick ridge that ran along his whole length, back up to that swollen, twinned curve where it took on a purplish hue, the satin-smooth skin on his shaft giving way to taut, sensitive flesh that drew a soft, appreciative groan wherever her lips fell.

She hovered, letting him suffer for a moment while her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Then she dipped her head.

Her lips slipped down over that heart-shaped head, meeting every millimetre of skin with a slow caress. Her tongue traced spirals around him, occasionally straying away to explore and tease at some warm contour.

“ _Oh, fuck…_ ”

Her hair fell over one shoulder, tickling across his bare flesh. It blocked her view of the door and the hallway beyond it.

Bill’s hand returned to the back of her neck, that warm, slight roughness sliding over her skin, fingers curling possessively around her. She pulled her head back, wetting her lips again before she slipped back down, taking more of him into the heat of her mouth. Still not enough. His size continued to pose a challenge. Margaux slid the fingers of one hand around him and gripped firmly, holding his skin taut while her mouth worked at him. She fluttered her tongue along his frenulum, sucked at the delicate, responsive flesh, losing herself in the the primality of the moment, charged by his unreserved expression of pleasure.

His hips began to match the rhythm of her mouth, thrusting up to meet her lips, falling when they drew back. 

A thrust went too deep, made her choke, and he backed off a little, stroking the back of her head apologetically. 

Margaux introduced her other hand, gripping him just above the first, rippling her fingers to massage him as her tongue teased at the slit at his tip, tasting the salt of pre-ejaculate. She drew her mouth back a little, letting the saliva gather in her mouth and run down his shaft, over and between her fingers. She worked around him until he was slick with it, until her hands slid easily up and down and his hips bucked a little with each movement. Margaux took up the rhythm again, sliding her lips down over him, drawing her hands down as her head moved up. Her jaw ached dully with the exertion of keeping her teeth distant, keeping her tongue moving.

She heard the scuff of soles on the hall carpet and froze. Bill groaned his frustration.

“Has Rothstein called?”

She’d known it was Robert — who else would it be? — but the sound of his voice still made her jerk, hands pulling away to her lap. Bill’s grip on the back of her head halted any attempt to move away completely. She began wiping her hands on her skirt. Her hair veiled her face from view, but that small mercy did nothing to lessen the swell of shame growing in her chest. There was no hiding what she’d been doing.

“Where were you?”

“Out.” Robert’s tone was sullen. There was no indication that what he’d walked in on surprised him in the slightest. It made her wonder whether this was something that happened a lot. All the same, she would have given anything for him not to have seen her like this. The abstract notion of what he could demand from her, even the camera footage showing it, was one thing, but seeing it made it real — at least to her.

Bill tapped Margaux sharply across the back of the head.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

She looked up at him. He frowned coldly back at her. This wasn’t the man of only moments ago, she realised. Suddenly he was all dominance and barely-suppressed aggression. Whether these sudden changes were an act or a reflection of his true mental state, she was still trying to decide. His fingers twisted back into her hair without an ounce of tenderness and pushed her head back down. She fought it at first, but her sense of self-preservation intervened: were the consequences of challenging his authority really worth it?

“Good girl.”

Robert took a step into the room, or sounded like he had. She had a sudden image of him pulling aside the coffee table, kneeling behind her — of his hands shoving her skirt up over her hips, his mouth hot in the hollow of her shoulder while she tried to fight him off, unable to scream. But the risk of something like that was low, surely, she struggled to remind herself as fear began to gnaw at her insides. Bill seemed to have laid claim to her — as some token of his superiority, his alpha masculinity. He wasn’t the sort that shared. That thought triggered the image of Bill pushing Robert away, the two of them tearing at each other like animals fighting over meat. It wasn’t any better than the first image. Certainly no more comforting.

“No. David hasn’t called,” Bill answered Robert at last. “We’ll give it — _ah_ —” He slowed Margaux’s movements with a firm grip on her hair. She resisted the growing compulsion to bite. “ _Slower, darling_. We’ll give it another hour.”

Robert didn’t speak again, but she imagined him nodding passively. He turned and left, his footsteps moving back towards the kitchen.


	34. Fury

He came, finally, with a low groan, his fist gripping too tightly in her hair. Margaux pulled away as soon as she could, swallowing again and again to get the bitterness from her mouth.  
“Isn’t that better?”  
Margaux said nothing. She slowly got to her feet and started smoothing the front of her skirt. Already regret was burning a hole in the pit of her stomach.  
“Do me a favour, darling. Go and get me something to clean up with.”  
Margaux nodded mutely and walked out into the hallway, wiping one corner of her mouth with a thumb.  
When she returned, flannel in hand, he looked up at her from the sofa with the deep serenity of orgasm. Margaux noted with dismay that sex was evidently the best way to keep him agreeable.  
“You’re angry with me.”  
“No.”  
“Yes you are. (Thank you, darling.)” He took the flannel and held himself upright as he cleaned up.  
“What difference does it make?”  
“…Well, Margaux, I don’t want you to be angry with me.” He finished and got to his feet, dropping the crumpled cloth on the sofa. When he leaned down, nuzzling at her throat, she moved away. “Do you want to hit me? Will that make you feel better?”  
“I’m not interested in violence.”  
“Bollocks. I bet you’ve daydreamed about doing horrific things to me.” His voice was a low, playful growl.  
She didn’t answer.  
“Come on, darling.” He stepped back and held out his arms with open palms. A circle of her teeth marks showed crimson on his left forearm. “Hit me. It’s okay.”  
Without a moment’s hesitation she rounded on him, thrusting her fist upward into his cheekbone. The blow caught him unprepared, and he reeled back a little, reflexively moving one hand up towards his face, too late.  
“Christ, Margaux. I was expecting a slap.” He prodded gingerly at the reddening spot on his cheek. Margaux uncurled her fingers and flexed them; it hurt a little, but she had connected with her middle knuckle instead of her fingers — she hadn’t done herself any damage worth noting.  
“Actually, I do feel better.”  
“…Good.” A smile of disbelief twitched at one corner of his mouth.

*

Bill tilted his head, angling his cheek toward the mirror. It hadn’t been much of a punch, but it had been more than he thought she was capable of. There had been fury in her eyes, a rekindling of the fire he was worried had started to die. No, she was still a fighter.  
He stared at his reflection.  
It had excited him, he realised. It had excited him to relinquish his power to her, even if it was only for the briefest moment. It had excited him to feel an electric bloom of pain by her hand. If he weren’t spent already, he would have been on her in a second.  
This realisation contradicted what he thought he knew about himself, and he caught his reflection frowning.  
Bill’s mind wandered as he finished washing his hands.


	35. Blood

The hour passed. The single slowest hour of Margaux Butler’s life.  
When they came for her, she ran. Robert caught her around the waist and lifted her off the ground, ignoring the fingernails that clawed at his arms. She didn’t know where she’d expected to go.  
He forced her into a chair at the kitchen table and held her by the shoulders until she stopped struggling. Bill watched from the doorway with a blank expression.  
After the sounds of the struggle and the desperate, wordless screams stopped, the silence seemed to press in on them like fog. Robert walked calmly to the other side of the table and sat down.  
A moth flew into the kitchen bulb with a muffled chinking sound.  
He unzipped the kitbag on the floor and took out a dull silver roll of duct tape. Margaux moved back in her chair.  
“That won’t be necessary. Really. I’ll cooperate.”  
“I’m having a little trouble believing that.”  
“I will. Honestly I will.”  
Rob put the tape on the table between them and looked over her shoulder. Somewhere behind her she could feel Bill’s presence like heat.  
“Let her try,” he said softly. Absently. “We’re not going anywhere.”  
Robert stared at him.  
“What’s the problem, Rob? Afraid she’s going to overpower you?”  
His mouth tightened into a thin line, then he shrugged with forced indifference. As he looked down to fish something else out of the bag, Margaux noticed a tattoo beneath his hair, too overgrown by short, dark bristles to make out. “Are we resolved on what’s coming off?”   
“Margaux?”  
She shook her head, watching Robert line up his kit on the table: a short, viciously curved knife; cable ties; scissors; tape; and a bottle of cheap vodka. This last he pushed towards her.  
“I— I can’t think about it. You’ll h-hhave to decide. Not—” she interrupted herself, holding up a finger. She could feel her eyes widening and stinging with barely contained panic. She continued in a quiet, trembling voice: “Not the ear. There’ll be too much blood loss. O-okay?”  
“Okay. Drink the vodka.”  
“I guess there’s no anaesthetic.”  
“You guess correctly. Sorry.”  
“Oh, no. No. It’s fine!” She caught herself in a hysterical laugh and fell silent. After a heartbeat she drew the bottle towards her.   
The cheap metal cap scratched her as she unscrewed it, and the first swig went down like glass cleaner. Margaux pulled a face.  
“Not much of a vodka drinker.”  
“I guess not.”  
Robert was turning the little knife in his fingers. The size of those olive-skinned hands made it seem even smaller.  
“That doesn’t look like it’s up to much.” She was thinking of how long it would take to saw through flesh and bone with such a tiny blade. “Wouldn’t a cleaver be faster?”  
“Too imprecise. I might take off more than I mean to. I didn’t think you’d like that.”  
“That’s very considerate of you.”  
She felt like she was dreaming. This conversation wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.  
“Now.” He set the knife down and frowned at her theatrically. “No need for sarcasm, sweetheart. We can do this kicking and screaming if you prefer.”  
“I’ll be five minutes,” Bill said suddenly. He started up the hallway without waiting for a response. A door closed. Impossible to tell which one with her back turned.  
The man seated opposite her immediately grabbed her wrist, and she was filled with the awful certainty that she was about to say goodbye to a piece of herself.  
“Didn’t give you much time off, did he?”  
“…What?”  
“Ol’ Bill. Didn’t exactly give you a day’s grace.”  
“…No.”  
“I would have.”  
God forbid she be allowed to focus on just one awful thing for a little while.  
“Yes. You said.”  
His brow furrowed a little.  
“In the bathroom. This morning.”  
“Right. Yeah.”  
His grip on her wrist was making her feel small. Fragile. If Bill was a tiger, Robert was a bear. She was neither skinny nor particularly delicate, but he could snap her like a twig and they both knew it.  
A door opened in the hall. Robert shoved her arm back at her as if it had burned him.  
“Alright?”  
Margaux met Bill’s eye as he walked back into the kitchen and immediately looked away. As he stood over her, she caught a warm breath of his cologne.  
“Are you ready, Margaux?”  
“Yes.” She took a long swig from the bottle. “Fuck it. It’s not going to get any easier.” The words came out sounding a lot more confident than she felt, and she saw herself putting out her left hand and spreading her fingers as if someone else was doing it. She was starting to feel strange. Light-headed. She wondered if she was going to faint.  
“You’re sure?”  
“Just—” She took another swig and cradled the bottle on her lap, holding it by the neck. “Just do it. Before the Dutch courage wears off and I come back to my f-ffucking senses.”  
Margaux looked away, struggling for control.  
“Here.” Bill’s voice from behind her. A familiar jingling. His belt moved into her field of vision, folded in two.  
One of them took hold of her wrist — just which, it was difficult to say — and she bit down hard on the leather strap, screwing her eyes tight shut in anticipation of that first awful violation. A tear escaped and ran hot down her cheek. She felt Bill take the bottle from her hand.  
Warm, thick fingers took hold of hers. Cold plastic wound tight around her little finger. When she flinched, two hands held her arm in place. Another pinned her hand to the table.   
“If you’ve got a Happy Place, love, now would be the time to go to it.”  
For a split second there was nothing.  
Then it came.   
Seething, twisting, blistering agony, burning up the tendons of her arm. Her back seized and stiffened, and she screamed around the belt.  
Robert’s voice, suddenly, with an air of disbelief:  
“Jesus Christ…”  
As abruptly as it began, the pressure stopped. The pain did not.  
Buzzing. Then, a familiar ring. When she opened her eyes, Margaux was blinded by her own tears. All she could see was red. So much red.  
Her voice cracked a little as she whimpered:  
“Is somebody going to get that?”


	36. Stitches

“You’ll make it worse.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. Just stop doing it.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Would you rather do this yourself?”

Margaux shook her head mutely. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Bill tightened his grip on her wrist and held the tip of the small, curved needle in the flame of a candle he’d found in the airing cupboard. They both watched the flame dance. When her eyes inadvertently met his, Margaux looked down at the table.

It wasn’t sharp enough, and as the needle went through Margaux hissed through gritted teeth. If Bill registered the hand that gripped his arm until its knuckles blanched white, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Margaux had expected to suddenly, violently lose a finger. Brutal but efficient. Instead she was looking down at a jagged mess that cut down almost to the bone, arching down from the middle of her lower phalanx until it reached the opposite side beneath. Although Bill was making a go of trying to stitch the wound closed, he wasn’t doing a very good job. It would be an ugly scar.

When he pulled it through, the friction of the too-thick cotton was worse than the needle. She groaned and let go of Bill’s arm long enough to reach for the bottle of vodka on the table. Margaux was sure she’d read something about high blood alcohol and blood loss, but she couldn’t remember what it was. She doubted she’d care if she did.

Bill was quiet. 

He hadn’t said much since he came off the phone. Margaux could feel anxiety ballooning in her throat, but she was afraid to acknowledge the silence. Lest it turn into something worse.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. 

Margaux said nothing.

“It should have been quick. We owed you that.”

“Because I’ve been so… co-operative.” She spoke slowly. Her head was swimming.

“Yes. You have.”

A dark laugh bubbled in her throat. Suddenly she felt very drunk.

“Look where that got me.”

“I don’t suppose it would help to point out how it could be worse.”

The thread pulled through again and she tried to suppress the yelp of pain that accompanied it. 

“No. It would not.”

Bill paused to wipe off the needle and held it back inside the candle flame. 

“Are you alright?”

“…Are you joking?”

He smirked. “A little bit.”

“You’re _such_ —” She caught herself.

“A what? Go on.”

Margaux looked down at the table.

He held the needle above the site of the next stitch. “You’ve earned a free shot, Margaux. I suggest you take it.” 

It occurred to her that he was trying to distract her from the needle, and in that moment she felt something strangely like affection. She played along.

“What’s my—” She winced, trying not to look at the thread pulling through her skin. “What’s my verbal budget?”

“Limitless, darling.”

Turning her hand over, he took the bottle of vodka and poured a little over the last open centimetre of the cut.

Margaux grabbed a fistful of Bill’s sleeve. “ _You cunt…!_ ”

“Is that the best you’ve got for me?”

“That doesn’t count,” she retorted, through gritted teeth. 

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Fucking cheat.”

He laughed.

“Alright.” He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. “I’m almost done.”

Margaux looked away, hoping that not being able to see the needle go in might make it hurt less. When he started on the next stitch she realised that her hopes has been very much misplaced.

“What happened? When David called?” The words came out strained and shaking.

He looked at her for a long moment. The needle was still lodged in her flesh. She thought she was going to vomit.

“It’s taken care of.”

Those words should have resulted in some relief, but they didn’t. His tone wasn’t right.

“When—”

“It will all be over soon, Margaux. I promise you.”

They stared at each other, and what he hadn’t said weighed on her tongue in the form of a question she didn’t dare ask. She was definitely going to be sick.


	37. Full Moon

She was thinking about the gun. Narrowing down potential hiding places. She imagined herself taking aim. Pulling back the hammer. Realisation dawning on Bill’s face, then horror. Then pain. Robert would run in at the sound of gunfire, then meet the same fate.

She expected to feel some satisfaction in the fantasy, but there was none. Instead she felt like she might cry again. But at least some of that could be attributed to the vodka.

Margaux was on the bed in the end room. Her hand was cradled against her chest, the finger wrapped in gauze. Throbbing. She wanted to sleep — needed to — but each time she began to settle she was seized by a new wave of panic. 

For a while she’d tried to listen to the two men talking in the kitchen, tried to get some idea of what was happening, but short of standing in the hallway she couldn’t make much of it out.

He had to have said he’d pay. If not, wouldn’t they have staged another violent performance for David’s benefit?

But then why Bill’s strange tone? That long, piercing look?

Margaux pushed herself further back into the corner until her back pressed against the wall, pulling her legs up against her chest in search of some primal sense of security. She folded the pillow and wedged it between her shoulder and the wall, then pulled the blanket around her.

It was in this position that Bill found her hours later.

She’d heard the footsteps coming down the hall, but hadn’t moved. She’d frozen. Listening.

In the moments between the door opening and him reaching for the light, she thought about pretending to be asleep. It would make no difference, she realised, and met his eye as the bulb flickered on. He stood there for a moment, silent. Margaux tried to gauge his mood and couldn’t.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“So did I.”

“How’s your hand?”

“Sore.”

“And your ankle?”

“It twinges a little.”

“You shouldn’t have run.”

“Do you blame me?”

“No, I don’t. Can you walk on it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to get some air?”

*

He was silent for a long time.

Margaux was starting to wonder what he wanted.

Finally, she asked softly,

“…Are you okay?”

Bill took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and put one between his lips.

“I’m fine,” he answered around the filter tip, and took out a lighter. The flame danced between his thumb and finger as the tobacco caught alight. “D’you want one?”

“Please.”

Bill took the cigarette from his mouth and handed it to her, then took out another and lit it. 

“Thank you.”

Margaux took a long drag. The smoke tasted heavy and awful, but it felt good. She repositioned herself on the low stone windowsill and looked up at the full moon above them. Bill leaned against the white bonnet of the van.

Silence fell between them again. Margaux breathed smoke out into the cold air and watched it swirl together with Bill’s before it dissipated.

A fox shrieked somewhere behind the house. A heartbeat later, another answered from the hill.

“Margaux, you’re going home.”

“…What?”

“I said you’re going home.”

“When?”

“Night after next.”

She took another drag and tried to ignore the shaking of her hand.

“I, um…” She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “I suppose you’ll be getting your money, then.”

“It looks that way.” The end of Bill’s cigarette bloomed orange in the dark.

A heavy bank of cloud crossed the moon. Margaux watched it as she felt a knot form and grow in the pit of her stomach.

“I thought you’d be happier.” Bill crossed the gravel between them and sat down on the windowsill beside her.

“I guess I don’t know whether to believe you.”

“Do you think I’d lie about something like that?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. To manipulate me. To give me hope.” She pulled smoke deep into her lungs and felt her head swim. “So you could take it away.”

“Christ.” He stubbed his cigarette out on the brickwork. Embers swirled down and faded into the dark.

“Sorry.”

“No, that’s fair.” He lit another cigarette. “Given the right circumstances I probably would.”


End file.
